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Lacy’s Acting Editioi

v‘ WA./'V/’NXXz

IRON CHEST.

THOMAS HAILES LACY

CJeatrial

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THE

IKON CHEST.

a f las.

MUSIC and TL , S

THREE ACTS. §7 KINGS! IV

; GEOEGE COL MAN,

THE YOUNGER,

Author of Jolm ^‘‘ Poor Gentleman f Heir- at- Law,

\ ** Surrender of Calais^ “ Beviewp Ac., Ac,

WITH THE PREFACE.

liONDON :

/ SAMUEL FRENCH,

I PUBLISHER,

1 8 9 , STRAND.

New Yoek :

SAMUEL FRENCH & SON,

rUBI.ISHERS,

122, NASSAU STREET.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION, 1796 * /

Having been, for some time, a labourer in the Drama, and finding
it necessary to continue my labours, I cannot help endeavouriniig
to guard the past from misrepresentation, lest my supineness maj,y
injure the future. Conscious that a prejudice has been raised again^st
the Play which I now submit to the Reader, and conscious how ftir
I am innocent of raising it, it were stupid to sit down in silencie,
and thus tacitly acknowledge myself guilty of dulness; — dumbly
confess I have been deficient in the knowledge of my trade, dar i
myself for a bungling workman, and fix a disrepute upon every
article which may, hereafter, coinc from my hands.

Thanks to you, Ladies and Gentlemen ! you have been kind
customers to me ; and I am proud to say that you have stanipod a
fashion upon my goods. Base, indeed, and ungrateful were th«3
attempt, after your favours, so long received and continued, to im
pose upon you a clumsy commodity, and boast it to be ware of tlic^
first quality that I ever put up to sale ! No— on the word of an
honest man, I have bestowed no small pains upon this Iron Chesty
which I offer you. Inspect it ; examine it ; you see the maker’§
name is upon it. I do not say it is perfect ; I do not pretend to tel]
you it is of the highest polish ; there is no occasion for that ; — man y
of my brethren have presented you with mere linings for chests, nr':
you have been content :~but, I trust, you will find that my Iron
Chest will hold together, that it is tolerably sound, and fit for all
the purposes for which it was intended.

Then how came it to fall to pieces, after four days wear ? — I will
explain that : — but alas ! alas ! my heart doth yearn, when I think
on the task which circumstance has thrust upon me.

Now, by the Spirit of Peace, I swear ! were I not still doomed to
explore the rugged windings of the Drama, I would wrap myself
in mute philosophy, and repose calmly under the dark shade of m\'
grievance, rather than endure the pain, and trouble, of this exphiii -
ation. I cannot, however, cry “Let the world slide;’’ I must
pursue my journey ; and be active to clear away the obstacles that
impede my progress.

I am too callous, now, to be annoyed by those innumerable gnats
and insects, who daily dart their impotent stings on the literary
traveller; and too knowing to dismount, and waste my time in

Tins I’vofacc, so celebrated, and so difficult to obtain, is here rcpvinti'ii. as
an illustration of i)lain speaking, not altogether undeserved. .Mr. Kfiiibio
vliould liave acted Sir Edward well; it is clear from all testimony that lit did not.

^ ^ ^

PREFACE TO THE IRON CHEST.

3

whipping grasshoppers : — but here is a scowling, sullen, black Bull,
right athwart niy road;— a monster of magnitude, of the Boeotian
breed, perplexing me in my wanderings through the entangled
labyrinth of Drury I he stands sulkily before, with sides, seemingly,
impenetrable to any lash, and tougher than the Dun Cow of War
wick! — His front out-fronting the brazen bull of Perillus ! — He
has bellowed. Gentlemen ! Yea, he hath bellowed a dismal sound !
A hollow, unvaried tone, heaved from his very midriff, and striking
the listener with torpor ! — Would I could pass the animal quietly,
for my own sake — and, for his, by Jupiter ! I repeat it, I would not
willingly harm the Bull. — I delight not in baiting him. — I would
jog as gently by him as by the ass, that grazes on the common :
but he has obstinately blocked up my way — he has already tossed
and gored me, severely — I must make an effort, or he batters me
down, and leaves me to bite the dust.

The weapon 1 must use is not of that brilliant and keen quality,
which, in a skilful hand, neatly cuts up the subject, to the delight,
and admiration, of the by-standers : It is a homely cudgel of
Narrative ; a blunt baton of Matter of fact ; affording little display
of art in the wielder ; and so heavy in its nature, that it can
merely claim the merit of being appropriate to the opponent at
whom it is levelled.

Pray, stand clear ! — for I shall handle this club vilely : and if
any one come in my way, he may chance to get a rap, which I
did not intend to bestow upon him. Good venal and venemous
gentlemen, who dabble in ink for pay or from pique, and who have
dub’d yourselves Critichs^ keep your distance now ! Run home to
your garrets ! — Fools! ye are but at best ; and will die

soon enough, in the paltry course of your insignificant natures,
without thrusting your ears (if there be any left you) into the heat
^ of this perilous action. — Avaunt ! — well, well, stay if ye are bent
^ upon it, and be pert and busy ; your folly, to me, is of no moment.*^

I hasten now to my Narrative.

I agreed to write the following Play, at the instance of the chief
Proprietor of Drury Lane Theatre ;t who unconditionally, agreed to
pay me a certain sum for my labour ; — and this certain sum, being
much larger than any, I believe, hitherto offered on similar
occasions, created no small jealousy among the Parnassian Sans
Culottes ; several of whom have, of late, been vapidly industrious
to level, to the muddy surface of their own Castalian ditch,
so Aristocratico- Dramatic a bargainer. The Play, as fast as
written, (piecemeal) was put into rehearsal : But let it here be
noted, gentle reader! that a rehearsal, in Drury Lane, (I mean as
far as relates to this Iron Chest) is Incus a non lucendo. They
yclep it a rehearsal, I conjecture, because they do not rehearse. I

« Ye who impartially, and conscientiously, sit in diurnal judgment upon
modern dramatists, apply not this to yourselves. It aims only at the malevolent,
the mean, and the ignorant, who are the disgrace of your order,
t Richard Brinsley Sheridan. — T. H, L.

4

PKEFACE TO THE IRON CHEST.

call the loved shade of Garrick to witness ; nay, I call the less^
loved presence of the then acting Manager to avow, — that ther&
never was one fair rehearsal of the Play. — Never one rehearsal,
wherein one, or two, or more, of the Performers, very essential to
the piece, were not absent: and all the rehearsals which I
attended, so slovenly, and irregular, that the ragged master of a
theatrical barn might have blushed for the want of discipline in
the pompous Director of his Majesty’s Servants, at the vast and
astonishing new- erected Theatre Royal, in Drury Lane.

It is well known, to those conversant with the business of the-
stage, that no perfect judgment can be formed of the length of a
Play, apparent to the spectator, nor of the general effect intended to
be produced, until the private repetitions, among the actors, have
reduced the business into something like lucidus ordo : — then comes
the time for the judicious author to take up his pruning-knife, or
handle his hatchet. Then he goes lustily to work, my masters !
upon his curtailments, or additions ; his transpositions, his
loppings, his parings, trimmings, dockings, &c. &c. As in the
writing, so in the rehearsal.

“ Ordinis hsec virtus erit et venus, aut ego fallor
“ Ut jam nunc dicat, jam nunc debentia dici”

“ Pleraque differat, et praesens in tempus omittat
Hoc amet, hoc spernat, promissi carminis Auctor.**

But, woe is me ! while I was patiently waiting the expected
crisis, a circumstance occurr’d which compell’d me to watch a
crisis of a less agreeable nature. A fever attack’d me, as I sat
beneath the damp dome of Drury, and drove me, malgre moi^ ta
bed; where I lay during a week, till three hours before the Play
was exhibited. In addition to the unavoidable injury arising from
the author’s absence, Mr. Kemble, the acting- manager, and prin-
cipal performer in the piece, was, and had been for a few days,
previous to my own illness, confined to his chamber, by indis-
position. I lay little stress, indeed, upon his temporary incapacity
to perform his managerical duty ; his mode of discharging it,
hitherto, was productive of little benefit to me ; — Still it was some
drawback — for were a mere Log thrown amidst a Thespian com-
munity, and nominated its dull and ponderous Ruler, still the
block, while in its place, would carry some sway with: — but his-
non-attendance as an actor, so much engaged in the Play, was
particularly detrimental.

Nay, even the Composer of the music — and here let me breathe
a sigh, to the memory of departed worth and genius, as I write the
name of Storage* — even he, could not preside in his department.
He was preparing an early flight to that abode of harmony, where
choirs of Angels swell the note of welcome to an honest and
congenial spirit.

Here then was a direct stop to the business ? No such thing..

• The whole of the beautiful concerted music is now omitted.— T. H. L.

PREFACE TO THE IRON CHEST.

5

The Troops proceeded without leaders : in the dark, Messieurs ! —
“ JSans eyes, Sans every thing.” The Prompter, it is true, a kind of
non-commissioned officer, headed the Corps, and a curious march
was made of it !

But lo ! two days, or three, (I forget whieh) previous to the
public representation, up rose King Kemble! like Somnus from
his ebon bed, to distribute his dozing directions among his
subjects.

Tard^ gravitate jacentes”

‘‘ Vix oculos tollens;”

** Summaque percutiens nutanti pectora mento,”

“ Excussit, tandem, sibi se ; cubitoque Jevatus,’’ &c.

He came, saw, and pronounced the Piece to be ripe for exhibition.
It was ordered to be performed immediately. News was brought to
me, in my sickness, of the mighty J^iat ; and, althougli I was told,
officially, that due care had been taken to render it worthy of
public attention, I submitted with doubt and trembling to the
decree. My doubts, too, of this boasted care were not a little
increased by a note, which I received from the Prompter, written
by the Manager’s order, three hours only, before the first repre-
sentation of the Play : — wherein, atr this late period, my consent
was, abruptly, requested to a transposition of two of the most
material scenes in the second act : and the reason given for this
curious proposal was, that the present stage of Drury — where the
Architect and Machinist, with the judgment and ingenuity of a
Politician and a Wit to assist them, had combined to outdo all
former theatrieal outdoings — was so bunglingly constructed, that
there was not time for the carpenters to place the lumbering
frame work, on which an Abbey was painted, behind the re-
presentation of a Library, without leaving a chasm of ten minutes
in the action of the Play ; and that in the middle of an act. —
Such was the fabrication of that New Stage, whose “ exte7it and
powers" have been so vauntingly advertised, under the classick
management of Mr. Kemble, in the edifying exhibition of Panto-
mimes, Processions, Pageants, Triumphal Cars, Milk-white Horses,
and Elephants !

As I did not chuse to alter the construction of my Play, without
deliberation, merely to sereen the ill-construction of the House, I
would not listen to the modest, and well-timed demand, of turning
the progress of my fable topsy turvey.

Very ill, and very weak, from the effects of the fever, whieh had
not yet left me, I made an effort, and went to the Theatre, to
witness the performance. I found Mr. Kemble, in his dressing
room, a short time before the curtain was drawn up, taking Opium
Pills: and, nobody who is acquainted with that gentleman will
doubt me when I assert, that they are a medicine which he has
long been in the habit of swallowing. He appeared to be very
unwell ; and seemed, indeed, to have imbibed,

“ Poppy and Mandragora,”

“ And all the drowsy syrups of the world.’’

6

PEEFACE TO THE IRON CHEST.

The Play began; and all went smoothly, till a trifling disappro-
bation was shewn to the character personated by Mr. Dodd ;

the scene in which he was engaged being much too long. A proof
of the neglect of those whose business it was to have informed
me (in my unavoidable absence from the Theatre) that it appeared
in the last rehearsals., to want curtailment. I considered this,
however, to be of no great moment; for Mr. Kemble was to appear
immediately in a subsequent scene, and much was expected from
his execution of a part, written expressly for his powers.

And, here, let me describe the requisites for the character
which I have attempted to draw, that the world may judge
whether I have taken a wrong measure of the personage whom I
proposed to fit ; premising that I have worked for him before with
success, and, therefore, it may be presumed that I am somewhat

acquainted with the dimensions of his qualifications 1 required,

then, a man

“ Of a tall stature, and of sable hue,”

“ Much like the son of Kish, that lofty Jew,’*

A man of whom it might be said,

“ There’s something in his soul”

“ O’er which his melancholy sits and broods.”

Look at the actor; — and will any body do him the injustice to
declare that he is deficient in these qualifications. It would
puzzle any author, in any time or country, from -dEschylus down,
even, to the Translator of Lodoisha"^ — and really, gentlemen, I can
go no lower — to find a figure and face better suited to the purpose.
I have endeavoured moreover, to pourtray Sir Edward Mortimer
as a man stately in his deportment, reserved in his temper, myste-
rious, cold, and impenetrable, in his manner : and the candid
observers, I trust, will allow that Mr. Kemble is thoroughly
adequate to such a personation.

To complete my requisitions, I demanded a performer who could
enter into the spirit of a character proceeding upon romantick,
half-witted principles, abstracted in his opinions, sophisticated in
his reasonings, and who is thrown into situations where his mind
and conduct stand, tiptoe, on the extremest verge of probability.
Here, surely, I have not mistaken my man ; for if 1 am able to
form any opinion of him, as an Actor, — and my opinion, I know,
is far from singular, — his chief excellence almost approaches that
style which the learned denominate caricature. Possibility on the
stretch, passion over-leaping its customary bound, movements of
the soul, sullen or violent, very rarely seen in the common course
of things, yet still may be seen — in these is his element. As our
language is said to have sunk under the vast conception of Miltojt,
so does the modesty of Nature suffer a depression beneath the
unwieldy imaginings of Mr. Kemble. He seldom deigns to
accompany the Goddess in her ordinary walks; when she decently

• J. P. Kemble himself.

PREFACE TO THE IRON CHEST.

7

paces the regular path, with a sober step, and a straight person :
hut he kindly assists her when she is, doubtless, in need of assist-
ance— when she appears out of her way, crazy and crooked.

The arrogant fault of being more refined than Refinement, more
proper than Propriety, more sensible than Sense, which, nine times
in ten will disgust the spectator, becomes frequently an advantage
to him, in characters of the above description.

In short, Mr. Kemble is a paragon-representative of the Lusus
Naturce: and were Mr. Kemble sewed up in a skin, to act a hog
in a pantomime, he would act a hog with six legs better than a
hog with four.

If any one ask why I chose to sketch a Lusus- Naturce, when it
might better become an author to be chaste in his delineation, I
can only reply, that I did so to obtain the assistance of Mr. Kemble
in his best manner ; and that now I do most heartily repent me :
for never, sure, did man place the main strength of his building
upon so rotten a prop !

Well, the great actor was discovered, as Sir Edward Mortimer ^
in his library. Gloom and desolation sat upon his brow ; and he
was habited, from the wig to the shoe-string, with the most studied
exactness. Had one of King Charles the First’s portraits walked
from the frame, upon the boards ot the Theatre, it could not have
afforded a truer representation of ancient and melancholy dignity.

The picture could not have looked better — but, in justice to the
picture, it must also be added, that, the picture could scarcely have
acted worse.

The spectators, who gaped with expectation at his first appear-
ance, yawned with lassitude before his first exit. It seemed,
however, that illness had totally incapacitated him from performing
the business he had undertaken. For his mere illness he was
entitled to pity; for his COTiduct under it, he, undoubtedly, deserved
censure.

How can Mr. Kemble, as a Manager, and an Actor, justify his
thrusting himself forward in a new play, the material interest of
which rested upon his own powers, at a moment when he must be
conscious that he had no powers at all ? — Mr. Kemble owes a duty
to the public, to his employer, and to an author writing for his
employer’s house. How does he treat the claimants upon his
service, in this instance? Exactly thus — he insults the under-
standing of the first, and injures the interests of the two last, by
calling in a crowd to an entertainment which he knows he must
mar.

I requested him, at the end of the first act, to order an apology
to be made for his indisposition, lest the uninformed, or malicious,
might attribute the ponderosity of the performer to the heaviness
of the author. I was anxious to disavow all right and title to
those pigs of lead which did not belong to me, and of which Mr.
Kemble was the just proprietor. But no — he peremptorily
declared he would not suffer an apology to be made ! It should
have been made (if at all) before the Play began. — Then why was
it not made ? — He did not, then, imagine that illness would have

8

PREFACE TO THE IRON CHEST,

disabled him. — So, then, a man quits his chamber, after an attack
which has, evidently, weakened him extremely, and he has no
bodily feel, no internal monitor, to whisper to him that he is feeble,
and that he has not recovered sufficient strength to make a violent
exertion ! This mode of reasoning, adopted by Mr. Kemble, is
much in the spirit of that clown’s, who did not know whether he
could play on a fiddle till he tried. Be it noted, also, that Mr.
Kemble was swallowing his opium pills, before the play began,
"because he was ill: — but opium causes strange oblivious effects;
and these pills must have occasioned so sudden a lapse in Mr.
Kemblr’s memory, that he forgot when he took them, .why he took
them, or that he had taken them at all. The dose must have been
very powerful. Still, for the reasons already stated, T pressed for
an apology ; still Mr. Kemble continued obstinate in opposing it.
His indisposition, he said, was evident; he had coughed very
much upon the stage, and an apology would make him “ look like
a fool,”

Good-nature in excess becomes weakness; but I never yet
found, in the confined course of my reading, that good nature and
folly would bear the same definition : Mr. Kemble, it should seem
(and he produced, at least, managerical authority for it) considered
the terms to be synonimous. Freely, however, forgiving him for
biis unkindness in refusing to gratify a poor devil of an author, —
who, very anxious for his reputation, was very moderate in his
request —I do, in all Christian charity, most sincerely wish that
Mr. Kemble may never find greater cause to look like a fool than
an apology for his indisposition.

At length, by dint of perseverance, I gained my point. A
.proprietor of the Theatre was called in upon the occasion, whose
mediation in my favour carried more weight with the Acting
Manager than a hapless Dramatist’s entreaty ; and the apology
was, in due form, delivered to the audience.

One third of the play, only, was yet performed ; and I was, now,
to make up my mind, like an unfortunate traveller, to pursue my
painful journey, through two stages more, upon a broken-down
Poster, on whose back lay all the baggage for my expedition.
Miserably, and most heavily in hand, did the Poster proceed ! — He
groaned, he lagged, he coughed, he winced, he wheezed ! — Never
was seen so sorry a jade ! The audience grew completely soured ;
and, once completely soured, every thing, naturally, went wrong.
They recurred to their disapprobation of poor Dodd — and observe
what this produced. I must relate it.

Mr. Kemble had just plodded through a scene, regardless of those
loud and manifest tokens, that the Critics delighted not in the
“ drowsy hums” with which he “ rang nigliVs yawning peal f when
Dodd appeared to him on the Stage ; at whose entrance the clamour
was renewed. Then, and not tiU then, did the Acting Manager,
who had been deaf as any post to the supplications of the author
for an apology — then, did he appear suddenly seized with a fit of
good nature. He voluntaiily came forward “ to look like a fool” and
beg the indulgence of the town. He feared he was the unhappy

PEEFACE TO THE IRON CHEST.

9

cause of their disapprobation ; he entreated their patience ; and
hoped he should, shortly, gain strength, to enable them to judge,
on a future night, what he handsomely termed the merits of the
Play. Here was friendship ! Plere was adroitness ! While the
Public were testifying their disgust at the Piece, through the
medium of poor Dodd, Mr. Kemble, with unexampled generosity,
took the whole blame upon his own shoulders, and heroically saved
the author, by so timely an interposition. I was charmed with
this master-stroke, and at the impulse of the moment, I thanked
him. But, alas ! how narrow is the soul of man ! how distrustful
in its movements, how scanty in its acknowledgements, how
perplexing to itself in its combinations ! Had 1, afterwards,
looked on the thing simply, and nakedly, by itself, why the thing
is a good-natured thing: but I must be putting other circumstances-
by the side of it, with a plague to me ! I must be puzzling myself
to see if all fits ; if all is of a piece. And what is the result ? —
Miserable that I am ! I have lost the pleasure of evincing a
gratitude, which I thought I owed, because I no longer feel myself
a debtor. Had I abandoned my mind to that placid negligence,
that luxurious confidence, which the inconsiderate enjoy, it had
never occurred to me that Mr. Kemble, forseeing, perhaps, that an
aggrieved author might not be totally silent — step’d forward with
this speech to the public, as a kind of salvo, (should a statement
be made) for his rigidity in the first instance. It had never
occurred to me that Mr. Kemble was sufficiently hissed, yawned at,
laughed at, and coughed down, to have made his apology before
Mr. Dodd appeared : It had never occurred to me that his making
his apology at a previous moment would have answered the same
purpose to me, and not to him : It had never occurred, in short,
that there is such a thing as ostentatious humility, and a politic
act of kindness ; and that I should have waited the sequel of a
man’s conduct, before 1 thanked him for one instance of seeming
good-will, close upon the heels of stubborn ill-nature, and in the
midst of existing, and palpable injury. The sequel will shew that
I was premature in my acknowledgment — but before I come to the
sequel, a word or two (I will be brief) to close my account of this,
first night’s eventful history. The Piece was concluded, and given
out, for a second performance, with much opposition.

Friends, who never heard the Play read, shook their heads;
Friends, who had heard it read, scarcely knew it again : Several,
I doubt not, .of the impartial, who chose to be active, actively con-
demned; and enemies, of course, rejoiced in an opportunity of
joining them.

No opportunity could be fairer. The Play was, at least, a fuU
hour too long ; and had Job himself sat to hear it, he must have
lost his patience. But, if, gentle reader, thou possessest JoVs
quality, and hast followed me thus far, in my Narrative, it will
appear to thee (for I doubt not thy retention and combination) that
I was unable to curtail it effectually, at the proper time — the
last rehearsals. I was, then, laid flat, my dear friend, as you
remember I have told you, by a fever. The acting manager

10

PREFACE TO THE IRON CHEST.

attend the last rehearsals, and sufiered the piece to be produced^
uncut^ to “drag its slow length along,” surcharged with all its
own incapacity, and all his opium.

How, then, do I stand indebted, according to the articles of this
night’s statement? I owe to Mr. Kemble,

For his illness Compassion,

For his conduct under it Censure,

For his refusing to maJce an apology ... A Smile !

For his malcing an apology ...... A Sneer,

For his mismanagement A GiiOAN,

For his acting A Hiss.

This account is somewhat like the Tavern bill, picked from
Falstaff’s pocket, when he is snorting behind the arras. There is
but one halfpennyworth of compassion to this intolerable deal of
blame.

Now for the sequel.^I have shewn, I think that Mr. Kemble,
in the first instance, undertook a duty which he could not perform :
I have now to afiirm, with all the difficulty of proving a negative
full in my face, that he afterwards, made a mockery oi discharging
a duty which he would not perform.

After a week’s interval, to give him time to recruit his strength ;
and the Author time to curtail, and alter the Play ; (for the im-
pression which the Mis-Manager and Actor, had contrived to stamp
rendered alteration necessary) it was a second time represented.

I must, here, let the uninformed reader into a secret ; — but I
must go to Newmarket to make him understand me. — No, Epsom
will do as well ; and that is nearer home. — It often happens, at a
Race, that a known Horse, from whom good sport is expected,
disappoints the crowd by walking over the course. — He does not miss
an inch of the ground; but affords not one jot of diversion, unless
some pleasure is received in contemplating his figure. Now, an
actor can do the very same thing. He can walk over his part : He
can miss no more of his words than the Horse does of his way :
he can be as dull, and as tedious, and as good-looking as the Horse,
in his progress : — The only difference between the two animals is, —
that the Horse brings in him who bets upon him a gainer ; but the
luckless wight who has a large stake depending upon the actor is,
decidedly, certain to lose. There is a trick, too, that the Jockies
practice, which is called, I think, playing booty. This consists in
appearing to use their utmost endeavour to reach the winning-post
first, when they are already determined to come in the last. The
consequence is, that all, except the knowing ones, attribute no fault
to the jockey, but damn the Horse for a sluggard. — An actor can.
play booty if he chuses : — he can pretend to whip and spur, and do
his best, when the Connoisseur knows, all the while, he is shirking :
— but Sluggard is the unmerited appellation given by the majority
to the innocent Author.

Mr. Kemble chiefly chose to be Horse, and ivalk'd over the ground.
Every now and then (but scai cely enough to save appearances) he
gave a slight touch of the Jockey, played booty.

PREFACE TO THE IRON CHEST.

11

Whether the language which is put into the mouth of Sir
Edward Mortimer be above mediocrity, or below contempt, is not
to the present purpose : but the words he is made to utter certainly
convey a meaning ; and the circumstances of the scenes afford an
opportunity to the performer of playing off his mimick emotions,
his transitions of passion, his starts, and all the trickeries of his
trade. The devil a trick did Mr. Kemble play but a very scurvy
one ! His emotions and passions were so rare, and so feeble, that
they season’d his general insipidity, like a single grain of
wretched pepper thrown into the largest dose of water gruel that
ever was administer’d to an invalid. For the most part, he toil’d
on, line after line, in a dull current of undiversified sound, which
stole upon the ear far more drowsily than the distant murmurings
of Lethe ; with no attempt to break the lulling stream, or check
its sleep-inviting course.

Frogs in a marsh, flies in a bottle, wind in a crevice, a preaclicr
in a field, the drone of a bagpipe, all, all yielded to the inimitable,
and sopv)rific monotony of Mr. Kemble !

The very best Dramatic writing, where passion is express’d,
if deliver’d languidly by the Actor, will fail in its intended effect :
and I will be bold enough to say that were the Car.se in Kinr/ Lear
new to an audience, and they heard it utter’d, for the first time, in
a croak, fainter than a crow’s in a consumption, it would pass
unnoticed, or appear vapid to the million.

If I raise a critical clatter about my ears, by this assertion,
which some may twist into a profanation of Shakspeare, 1 leave it
io Horace, who can fight battles better than 1, to defend me,

“ Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta,”

“ Romani tollent pedites equitesque cachinnum.’*

That Mr. Kemble did not misconceive the Part is certain ; for
he told me, some time before the Play was acted, that he fear’d
the exertions requisite, in Sir Edward Mortimer^ would strain his
lungs more than Octavian, in the Mountaineers.

That he can strain his lungs to good purpose, in Octavian^ is
well known ; and, after this, his own intimation, how will he
escape the charge of wilful and direct delinquency, when, with
such a conception of the part, and with health recover’d, he came
forward in the true spirit uf Bottom^ and “ aggravated his voice so
that he roared yon as ge,nthj as any sucking dove

He insulted the Town, and injured his Employer, and the
Author, sufficiently in the first instance : in the second he added
to the insult and injury an hundred fold: and as often as he
mangled the Character (three or four times, I am uncertain Avhich,
after the first night’s performance) he heap’d aggravation upon
aggravation.

The most miserable murmur, that ever disgraced the walls of a
Theatre, could not have been a stronger drawback than Mr. Kejible.

* Mr. Kemble informed me, previous to the second representation of the
Flay, that he felt himself capable of exertion.

12

PREFACE TO THE IRON CHEST.

He was not only dull in himself but the cause of dulness in others.
Like the baleful Upas of Java^ his pestiferous influence infected
all around him. — When two Actors came forward, to keep up the
Shuttlecock of scenicfiction, if one plays slovenly the otlier
cannot maintain his game. Poor Bannister, Jun. would he speak
out (but I have never press’d him, and never shall press him to
say a word upon the subject) could bear ample testimony to the
truth of this remark. He suffer’d like a man under the cruelty of
]\lezeutius. All alive himself, he was tied to a corpse, which he
was fated to drag about with him, scene after scene, which weigh’d
him down, and depress’d his vigour. Miss Farren, too, who might
animate anything but a soul of lead, and face of iron, experienced
the same fate.

I could proceed, and argue, and reason, and discuss, and tire the
reader, as I have tired myself (it is now, my good friend, one o’clock
in the morning) to prove, further, that Mr. Kemble was unsound

in my cause, and that he ruin’d my Play : But I will desist

here. I think I have prosed enough to manifest that my argu-
ments are not unfounded.

They who are experienced in Dramatics^ will, I trust, see that
I have made a fair extenuation of myself — they who are impartial,
will, I hope, be convinced that I have set down nought in malice.

The only question that may arise to shake, materially, the credit

of all I have said, is “ How is it probable that Mr. Kemble

should injure you thus, without provocation? Is it in nature?
Is it ill man?’’ I can merely answer, that, I am unconscious of
having given him a cause for provocation ; — that if I have given
him cause, he has taken a bad mode of revenge ; that Mr. Kemble’s
nature has frequently puzzled me in my observation upon it ; and
that I think him a very extraordinary man.

But let him take this with him, should this crudely written
preface ever fall in his way. I have committed it to currente
xalamo, I mean no allusion, no epithet, to apply to him as a
private individual. As a private individual, I give him not that

notice which it might, here, be impertinent to bestow : -but I

have an undoubted right to discuss his merits, or demerits, in his
public capacities of Manager and Actor : and my cause of com-
plaint gives me a good reason as well as a right. His want of
conduct, his neglect, his injustice, his oppression, his finesse,
his person, his face, are in this point of view all open to my
animadversion.

“ He is my goods, my chattels
“ My Horse, my Ox, my Ass, my any thing.”

And I would animadvert still further, did I not think I had
already said sufficient to gain the object of guarding my own
reputation. That object has solely sway’d me in dwelling so long
upon a “ plain tale,” encumber’d with so fatiguing a Hero as John
Kemble.

PKEFACE TO the IKON CHEST.

18

ADVERTISEMENT

TO THE READER.

I indebted for the ground-work of this Play to a Novel, entitled

TInngfs as They Are^ or the Adventures of Caleb Williams; written
by William GodwinT Much of Mr. Godwin’s story I have omitted ;
much, which I have adopted, I have compress’d; much I have
added ; and much I have taken the liberty to alter.

All this I did that I might fit it, in the best of my judgment, to
the stage.

I have cautiously avoided all tendency to that which, vulgarly,
(wrongly, in many instances,) is termed Politics ; with which,
many have told me, Caleb Williams teems.

The stage has, now, no business with Politics : and, should a
Dramatic Author endeavour to dabble in them, it is the Lord
Chamberlain’s ofiice to check his attempts, before they meet the
eye of the Public. I perused Mr. Godwin’s book as a talc replete
t^ith interesting incident, ingenious in its arrangement, masterly
in its delineation of character, and forcible in its language. I con-
sidered it as right of Common ; and, by a title which custom has
given to Dramatists, I enclosed it within my theatrical paling.
However I may have till’d the land, 1 trust he discovers no inten-
tional injury to him, in my proceeding.

To all the Performers (excepting Mr. Kemble) I offer my hearty
thanks for their exertions ; which would have served me more, had
not an actor, “ dark as Erebus^ cast a gloom upon them, which
none of their efforts, however brilliant, could entirely disperse.

But this does not diminish my obligations to them: — so much,
indeed, I owe to them, that, when the Play was last performed, it
was rising, spite of Erebus^ in favour with the Town. It was, then,
advertised, day after day, at the bottom of the Play bills, for
repetition, till the promissory advertisement became laughable ; and,
at length, the advertisement and the Play were dropt together.

If, after the foregoing Preface, I should at a future period, bring
the Play forward, in the Haymarket Theatre, I am fully aware of
the numbers who, from party, and pique, may now oppose it. I
am aware, too, of the weight 'which a first impression leaves upon
the minds of the most candid : — Still, so strong is my confidence in
the genuine decision of a London audience, who have a fair oppor-
tunity of exercising their judgment, and feelings, (which they have
not had, yet, in respect to this play) , that I believe I shall venture
an appeal.

The Piece is, now, printed as it was acted on the first night ;
that they who peruse it may decide whether, even in that shape,
(with all the misfortunes, fcfore enumerated, with whicdi it was
doomed to struggle) it should be, for ever, consigned to moulder on
the shelf.

The Songs, Duets, and Chorusscs, are intended merely as vehicles
for musical effect. Some Critics have pompously called them

B

14

PREFACE TO THE IRON CHEST.

Lyrick Poetry — that, by raising them to dignity, they may more
effectually degrade them: as men lift a stone very high, before
they let it fall, when they would completely dash it to pieces.

I, now, leave the gentle reader to the perusal of the Play — and,
lest my Father’s memory may be injured by mistakes; and, in the
confusion of after-times, the Translator of Terence, and the Author
of The Jealous Wife, be supposed guilty of the Iron Chest, I shall,
were I to reach the Patriarchal longevity of Methusalch, continue
(in all my Dramatic publications) to subscribe myself

GEORGE COLMAN, the Younger.

Piccadilly,

July 2m, 1796.

POSTSCRIPT.

Inveni PortumV'

I HAVE, now, previous to the publication of this edition of The Iron
Chest, made the appeal suggested in the foregoing Advertisement.
I have produced the Pla}^ at my own 'ilicatre, in the Haymarket.

Reflecting on the prejudice it would encounter, my hopes of
success were very moderate ; —had my expectations, however, been
most sanguine, I should not have suffered a disappointment. The
Piece was received with strong marks of approbation ; it is now,
nightly, performing ; and, if numerous auditors, and full applause,
can gratify a Dramatic Author, I am gratified completely.

The Play, as now representing, varies from the printed copy in
scarcely more than six lines, except in mere curtailment : and it is
printed (as I have already stated) as it was first acted, in Drury
Lane.

The chief Performers new in the Piece, at the Haymarket, are
Messrs, Elliston, Aickin, Fawcett, Palmer, C. Kemhle, Mrs. Kemhle,
and 3Irs. Bland. Their efforts to serve me demand my warmest
acknowledgements; to dwell upon their abilities would be
superfluous. Suffice it to say, that all the representatives of the
Dramatis Pcrsonce did ample credit to themselves ; and added, I
trust, no small portion of reputation to the Theatre.

But, let not my Corps Dramatique think it invidious if I single
Mr. Elliston from their number, who is peculiarly predicamented
in coming forward in a character of which so much has already
been said. This young Actor, new this summer, to the boards of
a London theatre, with a juvenility of person, in this instance
unfavourable to him, has sustained a part, written, expressly
for the powers of another man, (and that man as strong a mannerist
as ever wore a buskin) in a mode which might well become an

PREFACE TO THE IRON CHEST.

15

established veteran of the stage. It is far from my intention to
draw general comparisons — but it is impossible, here, to avoid
speaking of the two actors of /Sir Edioard Mortimer. The first
mangled, and finally sunk my Play ; the second healed the wounds
it had received, and is, now, (with the rest of his brethren) ably
supporting it. It is bare truth to say, that Mr. Elliston's conduct
to me, and his performance of the character, have been the very
reverse of Mr. Kemhle^s : — were it more than bare truth, it would
be a high compliment.

I, now, beg the Reader to compare this Postscript with the
Pre face ; and, I think, he will readily observe, that the one most
fully establishes the other — Here are facts, experimental facts,
now given, and, nightly, continuing to be given, to corroborate the
arguments I have advanced, and to prove that my complaint is
well founded.

I must, here, repeat that I have had but one motive in these
statements : — the motive which I have avowed in the conclusion
of my Preface. — I have effected my purpose ; — and I feel not the
least ill will towards Mr. Kemble — but my reason tells me that I
had better go to Constantinople, to do him a service, than put
future faith in his management, and his acting.

As to the poor, pelting Paragraphists, and Pamphleteers
he cannot, I am sure, be pleased in observing the contemptilDle
dirt with which they have endeavoured to bespatter me. I have,
I think, stated that they are below my notice : — but, so sore is
man, spite of his boasted apathy, that I cannot help giving, here,
a general reply to their animadversions.

My language will, I trust, be found more liberal than the
jargon of my opponents; and my arguments fully as convincing.
Thus I address them :

Gentlemen ! ! !

Pshaw ! Pish ! Pooh ! Ha, ha, ha !

Your obedient,

G. COLMAN, ike Younger,

Piccadilly^

September 5, 1796.

16

THE IRON CHEST,

First performed at the Theatre Royal Drury LanCf
on March 12, 1796.

THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
“ By Mr. KEMBLE,” &c.

Drury- Lane Play Bill.

••I had as lieve the Town-Crier had spoke my Lines.”

Shakapectre.

t^oracUrs.

SIR EDWARD MORTIMER Mb. Kemble!!!

FITZHAKDING (Jiis elder Brother) Mr. AVroughton.

WILFORD {Secretary} to Sir Edimrd)..,... Mr. Bannister, jun»

ADAM WINTERTON [the Steward) Mr. Dodd.

RAAV BOLD Mr. Barrymore.

SAMSON RAWBOLD Qds Son) Mr. Suett.

*BOY Master Welsh.

COOK Mr. Hollingsworth^

PETER Mr. Banks.

WALTER Mr. Maddoks.

SIMON Mr. Webb. .

GREGORY Mr. Trueman.

ARMSTRONG Mr. Kelly.

ORSON Mr. R. Palmer.

FIRST ROBBER Mr. Dignum.

SECOND ROBBER Mr. Sedgwick.

THIRD ROBBER Mr. Bannister.

ROBBER’S BOY Master Webb.

LADY HELEN Miss Farrhn.

BLANCH : .' Mrs. Gibbs.

*DAME RAWBOLD Miss T^dswell.

BARBARA Signora Storacb.

JUDITH Miss De Camp.

SCENE.— The New Forest^ in Hampshire, and on Us Borders*
[For Costumes, see the end of the Piece.]

♦Now omitted.

THE IRON CHEST,

ACT 1.

Scene!.— TAe imide of Rawhold's Cottage^ l; Barbara
seated^ r. ; Samson standing in the front of the stage^ c. /
a taper burning on a table^ R. c. ; a door^ l. c. ; the
whole scene exhibits poverty and wretchedness,

Samson. Five o’clock, and father not yet returned from
the New Forest ! An he come not shortly, the sun will rise,
and roast the venison on his shoulders. — Sister Barbara !
— Well, your rich men have no bowels for us lowly ! they
little think while they are gorging on the fat haunch of a
goodly buck, what fatigues we poor honest souls undergo
in stealing it. — Why, sister Barbara !

Barbara. I am here, brother Samson, [getting up)
Samson. Here ! marry, out upon you for an idle bag-
gage ! why, you crawl like a snail.

Barbara, (l. c.) I prithee, now, do not chide me,
Samson.

Samson. ’Tis my humour. I am father’s head man in
his poaching. The rubs I take from him, who is above
me, I hand down to you, who are below me. ’Tis the
way of office — where every miserable devil domineers it
over the next more miserable devil that’s under him.
You may scold sister Margery, an you will — she’s your
younger by a twelvemonth.

Barbara. Truly, brother, I would not make any one
unhappy, for the world. I am content to do what I can
to please, and to mind the house.

Samson. Truly, a weighty matter ! Thou art e’en ready
to hang thyself, for want of something to while away time.
What hast thon much more to do, than to trim the fsiggots,
nurse thy mother, boil the pot, patch our jackets, kill the
poultry, cure the hogs, feed the pigs, and combtlie children?

18 THE IRON CHEST. [ACT I.

Barbara. Many might think that no small charge,
Samson.

Samson. A mere nothing. While father and I (bate us
but the mother and children) have the credit of purloining
every single thing that you have the care of. We are up
early, and down late, in the exercise of our industry.

Barbara. I wish father and you would give up the
calling.

Samson. No — there is one keen argument to prevent us.

Barbara. Whafs that, brother?

Samson. Hunger. Would’ st have us be rogues, and
let our family starve ? Give up poaching and deer stealing!
Oons ! dost think we have no conscience ? Y onder sits
mother, poor soul! [points off r.) — old, helpless, and
crazy.

Barbara. Alas ! brother, ’tis heart-aching to look upon
her. This very time three years she got her maim. It
was a piteous tempest.

Samson. Aye — ’twas rough weather. The cottage was
blown down — the barn fired — father undone — Well, land-
lords are flinty hearted — no help! what then? We live,
don’t we ? [sullenly)

Barbara. Troth, brother, very sadly. Father has grown
desperate ; all is fallen to decay. We live by pilfering on
the forest — and our poor mother distracted, and unable to
look to the house. The rafter, which fell in the storm,
struck so heavy upon her brain, I fear me, ’twill never
again be settled. The little ones too — scarce clothed —
hungry — almost starving ! — Indeed, we are a very wretched
family.

Samson. Hark ! Methought I heard a tread, [knock at
door^ L. c.) Hist, be wary. The word?

Raavbold. [without) Roebuck.

Samson opens the door in flat^ and Rawbold enters,

Rawbold. Bar the door. So, softly.

Samson. What success, father?

Rawbold. Good : my limbs ache for’t. How you
stand! [to Samson) The cliair, you gander.

Samson, [to Barbara) Why, how you stand! the
chair, you gander! [they bring Rawbold a chair — he sits, c.)

THE IRON CHEST.

19

sc. I.]

Rawbold. Here — take my gun — ’tis unscrewed. Th«
keepers are abroad. I had scarce time to get it in my
pocket, [he pulls the gun from a pocket under his coat^ in
three pieces^ which Samson screws together^ while they arc
talking) Fie 1 His sharp work ! Barbara, you jade, come
hither.

Samson, (l. c.) Barbara, you shade, come hither.

Rawbold. Who bid thee chide her, lout ! Kiss thy
old father, wench. Kiss me I say. — So — why dost
tremble ? I am rough as a tempest. Evil fortune has
blown my lowering nature into turbulence : but thou art a
blossom that dost bend thy head so sweetly under my
^usts of passion. His pity they should eHr harm thee.

Barbara. Indeed, father, I am glad to see you safe
xeturned.

Rawbold. I believe thee. Take the keys. Go to the
locker, in the loft, and bring me a glass to recruit me.

Barbara goes out l. 2 e. Samson puts off the
gun^ R., and goes down r. c.

Samson. Well, father, and so

Rawbold. Peace. — I ha^ shot a buck.

Samson. 0 rare ! Of all the sure aims on the borders
of the New Forest, here, give me old Gilbert Rawbold ;
•though I, who am his son, say it, that should not say it.
Where have you stowed him, father ?

Rawbold. Under the furze, behind the hovel. Come
night again, we wiU draw him in, boy. I have been
watched.

Samson. Watched! Oh, the pestilence! our trade will
be spoil’ d if the game- keepers be after us. The law
will persecute us, father.

Rawbold. Dost know Mortimer ?

Samson. What, Sir Edward Mortimer ? Aye, sure. He
is bead keeper of the forest. ’Tis he who has shut himself
up in melancholy. Sees no rich, and does so much good
to the poor.

Rawbold. He has done me naught but evil. A gun
cannot be carried on the border, here, but he has scent
onH at a league’s distance. He is a thorn to me. His
scouts this night were after me— all on the watch. I’ll
be revenged — I’ll — So, the brandy.

20

THE IRON CHEST.

[ACT L

Enter Barbara, with the liquor^ L. 2 e.

{after drinking) ^Tis right, i’ faith !

Samson. That Tis, 111 he sworn ; for I smuggled it
myself. We do not live so near the coast for nothing.

Rawbold. Sir Edward Mortimer, look to it !

Barbara. Sir Edward Mortimer! Oh, dear father,
what of him ?

Rawbold. Aye, now thou art all agog ! Thou would’ st
hear somewhat of that smooth-tongued fellow, his
secretary — his clerk, Wilford ; whom thou so often
meet’st in the forest. I have news on’t. Look how you
walk thither again. What, thou would’st betray me to
him, I warrant ; — conspire against your father.

Samson. Aye, conspire against your father — and your
tender loving brother, you viper, you !

Barbara. Beshrew me, father, I meant no harm : and,
indeed, indeed, Wilford is as handsome a — I mean as good
a youth as ever breathed. If I thought he meant ill by
you, I should hate him.

Rawbold. When didst see him last ? — Speak !

Barbara. You terrify me so, father, I am scarce able
to speak. Yesternoon, by the copse. ’Twas but to read
with him the book of sonnets he gave me.

Samson. That’s the way your sly, grave rogues, work
into the hearts of the females. I never knew any good
come of a girl’s reading sonnets, with a learned clerk, under
a copse.

Rawbold. Let me hear no more of your meetings. I
am content to think you would not plot my undoing.

Barbara. I? — 0 father!

Rawbold. But he may plot yours. Mark me — Fortune
has tlirust me forth to prowl, like the wolf ; — but the wolf
is anxious for its young. I am an outcast, whom hunger
has hardened. I violate the law ; but feeling is not dead
within me : and, callous villain as I am accounted, I would
tear that greater villain piecemeal, who would seduce my
child, and rob an old man of the little remains of comfort
wretchedness has left him. (a knocking at the door in flat)

Wilford. {without) Hilliho ! ho !

Rawbold. How now !

THE IRON CHEST.

21

8C. I.]

Samson. There ! an they be not after us already. 1^11
— We have talked, too, till ’tis broad day-light.

WiLFORD. [without) Open, good master Rawbold ; I
would speak to you suddenly.

Barbara. Oh heaven ! ^tis the voice of Wilford himself.

Rawbold. Wilford ! I’m glad on’t — Now he shall —
I’m glad on’t. Open the door : quickly I say. He shall
smart for it.

Samson. Are you mad, father? ’Tis we shall smart
for it. Let in the keeper’s head man ! The hind quarter
of a buck has hung these fourteen days in the pantry.

Rawbold. Open, I say.

Samson. Oh Lord ! I defy any secretary’s nose not to
smell stolen venison the moment ’tis thrust into our hovel.

Samson opens the door. Enter Wilford, door in flat —
comes down r. of Rawbold.

Wilford. Save you, good people. You are Gilbert
Rawbold, as I take it.

RAwmoLD. I am. Your message here, young man^
bodes me no good : but I am Gilbert Rawbold — and here’s
my daughter. Dost know her ?

Wilford. Ah, Barbara, good wench I how fares it with
you ?

Rawbold. Look on her well — then consult your own
conscience. ’Tis difficult, haply, for a secretary to find
one. You are a villain.

Wilford. You lie. Hold, I crave pardon. You are her
father. She is innocent, and you are unhappy : I respect
virtue and misfortune too much to shock the one or insult
the other.

Rawbold. ’Sdeath ! why meet my daughter in the
forest ?

Wilford. Because I love her.

Rawbold. And would ruin her.

Wilford. That’s a strange way of shewing one’s love,,
methinks. I have a simple notion, Gilbert, that the thought
of having taken a base advantage of a poor girl’s affection
might go nigh to break a man’s sleep, and give him unquiet
dreams ; now, I love my night’s rest, and shall do nothing
to disturb it.

22

THE IRON CHEST.

[act

Rawbold. Wo■uld^st not poison her mind?

WiLFORD. ^Tis not my method, friend, of dosing a
patient. Look ye, Gilbert ; her mind is a fair flower^
struck in the rude soil, here, of surrounding ignorance,
and smiling in the chill of poverty : — I would fain cheer
it with the little sunshine I possess of comfort and
information. My parents were poor like her’s; slioiild
occasion serve, I might, haply, were all parties agreed,
make her my wife. To offer ought else would affect her,
you, and myself; and I have no talent at making three
people uneasy at the same time.

Rawbold. Your hand. On your own account, we are
friends.

Barbara. 0 dear father !

Rawbold. Be silent. Now to your errand. 'Tis from
Mortimer.

WiLFORD. I come from Sir Edward.

Rawbold. I know his malice. He would oppress me
with his power. He would starve me and my family.
Search my house.

Samson. No, father, no. [aside) You forget the hind
quarter in the pantry, [on l., then behind to R.)

Rawbold. Let him do his worst : but let him beware.
A tyrant ; a villain !

WiLFORD. Harkye — he is my master. I owe him my
gratitude ; — every thing ; — and had you been any but my
Barbara's father, and spoken so much against him, my
indignation had worked into my knuckles, and cramm’d
the words down your rusty throat.

Samson. I do begin to perceive how this will end.
Father will knock down the secretary as flat as a buck.

Rawbold. Why am I singled out ? Is there no mark
for the vengeance of office to shoot its sliaft at but me ?
This morning, as he dogghl me in the forest

WiLFORD. Hush, Rawbold; keep your own counsel.
Should you make it public, he must notice it.

Rawbold. Did he not notice it ?

AVilford. No matter — but he has sent me thus early,
Gilbert, with this relief to your distrc'scs, which he has
heard of. Here are twenty marks for you and your
family.

THE IRON CHEST.

23

SC. II.]

Rawbold. From Sir Edward Mortimer?

WiLFORD. Tis his way ; but he would not have it
mentioned. He is one of those judges who, in their office,
will never warp the law to save offenders ; but his private
•charity bids him assist the needy, before their necessities
drive them to crimes which his public duty must punish.

Rawbold. Did Mortimer do this! did he! heaven bless
him ! Oh, young man, if you knew half the misery — my
wife — my children — Shame on^t ! I have stood many a
tug, but the drops, now, fall in spite of me. I am not
ungrateful ; but I cannot stand it. [shakes his hand) We
will talk of Barbara when I have more man about me.

Exit, K. 1 E.

WiLFORD. Farewell. I must home to the lodge, quickly.
Ere this, I warrant, I am look’d for.

Barbara. Farewell.

Samson. Farewell, {shakes hands) We will talk of
Barbara when I have more man about me.

Takes Barbara, r. 1 e. Wilford goes off door in f.

Scene II. — An old-fashioned Hall in Sir Edward
Mortimer's Lodge, [2nd grooves)

Several Servants cross the stage with flagons, tankards,

cold meat, ^c,, ^c,, from R. to L. ; Adam Winterton
following, r.

Winter. Softly, varlets, softly ! See you crack none
of the stone flagons. Nay, ’tis plain, your own break-
fasts be toward by your shuttling thus. A goodly
morning! Why, you giddy-pated knave [to Peter), is
it so you carry a dish of pottery ? No heed of our good
master Sir Edward Mortimer’s ware. Fie, Peter Pick-
hone, fie !

Peter. I am in haste, master steward to break my
fast.

Winter. To break thy fast ! to break thy neck it
should seem. Ha! ha! good, i’ faith. Go thy ways,
knaves. [Exit Peter, l. ) ’Tis thus the rogues ever have me.
I would fain be angry with them ; but, straight, a merry
jest passGth across me, and my choler is over. To break

24

THE IRON CHEST.

[ACT I.

thy neck, it should seem ! ha ! ha ! ^twas well conceited,
by St. Thomas ! — My table-book for the business of the
day. Ah, my memory holds not as it did. It needs
the spur, {looking over his book) Nine and forty years
have I been house- steward and butler. Let me see. —
Let me see — my tables, {looking over them and singing)
When birds do carol on the bush,

With a heigh ho nonny — heigho !

These fatigues of office somewhat wear a man. I have
had a long lease onT. I ha^ seen out Queen Mary, Queen
Elizabeth, and King James. Tis e’en almost time that I
should retire, to begin to enjoy myself. Eh ! by St.
Thomas ! liither trips the fair mistress Blanch. Of all the
waiting gentlewomen I ever look’d on, during the two
last reigns, none stirred my fancy like this little rosebud.

Enter Blanch, l.

Blanch. A good day, good Adam Winterton.

Winter. What wag ! what tulip ! I never see thee
bnt I am a score of years the younger.

Blanch. Nay, then, let us not meet often, or you will
soon be in your second childhood.

Winter. What, you come from your mistress, the
Lady Helen, in the forest here ; and would speak with
Sir Edward Mortimer, I warrant.

Blanch. I would. Is his melancholy worship stirring
yet ?

Winter. Fie, you madcap! He is my master and
your lady’s friend.

Blanch. Yes, truly, it seems, her only one, poor lady;
he protects her now she is left an orphan.

Winter. A blessing on his heart ! I would it were
merrier. Well, she is much beholden to Sir Edward for
his consolation ; and he never affords her his advice, but
his bounty is sure to follow it.

Blanch. Just so a crow will nourish its nestling; he
croaks first and then gives her food.

Winter. Ha! ha! good i’faith! — but wicked. Thy
company will corrupt and lead me astray. Should they
happen to marry (and I have my fancies on’t). I’ll dance
a galliard with thee in the hall, on the round oak table.

#C. II.] THE IRON CHEST. 25

^Sbud! when I was a youth, I would ha^ caper’d with
St. Vitus, and beat him.

Blanch. You are as likely to dance, now, as they to
marry. What has hindered them, if the parties be agreed ?
— yet I have now been with my mistress these two years !
since Sir Edward first came hither, and placed her in the
cottage, hard by his lodge.

Winter. Tush ! family reasons. Thou knowest nothing :
thou art scarce catch’d. Two years back, when we came
from Kent, and Sir Edward first entered on his office, here,
of head keeper, thou wcrt a colt, running wild about New
Forest. I hired you myself to attend on Madam Helen.

Blanch. Nay, I shall never fogi’get it. But you were
^s frolicksome, then, as I, methinks. Dost remember the
box on the ear I gave thee, Adam ?

Winter. J^eace, peace, you pie! an you prate thus. I’ll
stop your mouth [ I will, by St. Thomas !

Blanch. An I be inclined to the contrary, I do not
think you are able to stop it.

Winter. Out, you baggage ! thou hast more tricks than
a kitten. Well, go thy ways. Sir Edward is at his study,
and there thou wilt find him. Ah, Mistress Blanch ! had
you but seen me in the early part of Queen Elizabeth’s
xeign !

Blanch. How old art thou now, Adam ?

Winter. Four score, come Martlemas : and by our
lady, I can run with a lapwing.

Blanch. Can’stthou? Well said! Thou art a merry
^Id man, and shalt have a kiss of me, on one condition.

Winter. Shall I ! odsbud, name it, and ’tis mine.

Blanch. Then catch me.

Runs under his arm^ and off^ r.

Winter. Pestilence on’t! there was a time when my
legs had served : but, to speak truth, I never thrust tliem
now into my scarlet hose, that they do not remember me
of two sticks of red sealing-wax. I was a clean-limb’d
stripling, when I first stood behind Sir Marmadiike’s arm
chair, in the old oak eating- room, {goes up stage)

Enter Wilford, l.

WiLFORD. Every new act of Sir Edward’s charity sets

c

26

THE IRON CHEST.

[act I.

]y;ie a thinking ; and the more I think, the more I am
puzzled. ’Tis strange that a man should be so ill at ease,
who is continually doing good. At times, the wild glare
of his eye is frightful ; and, last night, when I was writing
for him, in the library, I could not help fancying I was
shut up with the devil. I would stake my life there^s a
secret, and I could almost give my life to unravel it. I
must tp him for my morning’s employment, {crossing to R.)

Winter. Ah ! boy ! Wilford ! secretary ! whither
away, lad?

Wilford. Mr. Winterton ! — Aye, marry, this good old
man has the clue, could I but coax him to give it me. A
good morning to you, sir !

Winter. Yea, and the like to thee, boy. Come, thou
shalt have a cup of Canary from my corner cupboard,
yonder.

Wilford. Not a drop.

Winter. Troth, I bear thee a good will, for thy honest
old dead father’s sake. ^

Wilford. I do thankfully perceive it, sir. Your placing
me in Sir Edward’s family, some nine months ago, when
my poor father died and left me friendless, will never out
of my memory.

Winter. Tut, boy, no merit of mine in assisting the
friendless — ’tis our duty, child. I could never abide to
see honest industry chop-fallen. I love to have folks
merry about me, to my heart.

Wilford. I would you could instil some mirth into our
good master, Sir Edward. You are an old domestic — the
only one he brought with him, two years back, from
Kent — and might venture to give his spirits a jog : he
seems devoured with spleen and melancholy.

Winter. You are a prying boy — go to ! I have told
thee, a score of times, I would not have thee curious
about our worthy master’s humour.

AVilford. I should cease to pry, sir, would you but
once (as I think you have more than once seemed in-
clined) gratify my much-raised curiosity.

AYinter. AA^cll said, i’faith ; I do not doubt thee. I
warrant thou wouldst cease to enquire, when I had told
thee all thou wouldst know. AVhat, greenhorn, did’st

THE IRON CHEST.

27

SC. II.]

thou think to trap the old man ? Go thy ways, boy ! I
have a head : old Adam Winterton can sift a subtle speech
to the bottom.

WiLFORD. Ah, good sir, you need not tell me that.
Young as I am, I can admire that experience in another,
which I want myself.

Winter. There is something marvellous engaging in
this young man. You have a world of promise, boy.
Well, beware how you offend Sir Edward.

WiLFORD. I would not willingly, for the world : he has
been the kindest master to me ; but whilst my fortunes
ripen in the warmth of his goodness, the frozen gloom of
his countenance chills me.

AVinter. Well, well, take heed how you prate on’t.
Out on these babbling boys ! there is no keeping a secret
with younkers in a family.

WiLFORD. {very eagerly) What then there is a secret ! —
'Tis as I guessed, after all.

Winter. Why, how now, hot-head ? — Mercy on me !
an this tinder-box boy do not make me shake with ap-
prehension. Is it thus you take my frequent counsel?

WiLFORD. Dear sir, Tis your counsel which most I
covet. Give me but that ; admit me to your confidence ;
steer me with your advice, which I ever held excellent ;
and, with such a pilot, I may sail prosperously through a
current which, otherwise, might wreck me.

Winter. ^Tis melting to see how unfledged youth will
shelter itself, like a chicken, under the wing of such a tough
old cock as myself! AVell, well. I’ll think on’t, boy.

WiLFORD. The old answer. Yet, he softens apace :
could I but clench him now. Faith, sir, ’tis a raw morn-
ing ; and I care not if I taste the Canary your kindness
offered.

AVinter. Aha! lad! say’ st thou so ? Just my modest
humour when I was young. I ever refused my glass at
first, but I came to it ere I had quitted my company.
Here’s the key of the corner cupboard, yonder. See you
do not crack the bottle, you heedless goose, you !

AYilford goes l., and returns with bottle

and glasses.

Ha ! fill it up. Od ! it sparkles curiously. Here’s to—

r

28 THE IRON CHEST. [ACT I.

I prithee, tell me now, Wilford ; didst ever in thy life see
a waiting gentlewoman with a more inviting eye than the
little Mrs. Blanch ?

AYilfokd. Here’s Mistress Blanch, (drinks)

Winter. Ah, wag! well, go thy ways ! Well, when
I was of thy age — odsbud 1 no matter ; ’tis past, now ;
but liere’s the little Mistress Blanch, (drinks)

WiLFORD. ’Tis thought, here, Sir Edward means to
marry her lady, Madam Helen.

AYinter. Nay,, I know not. She has long been en-
amoured of him, poor lady! when he was the gay, the
gallant Sir Edward, of Kent. Ah, well I two years make
a wond’rous change !

Wilford. Yes, ’tis a good tough love, now-a-days,
that will hold out a couple of twelvemonths.

Winter. Away, I mean not so, you giddy pate ! He
is all honour ; and as steady in his course as the sun : yet
I wonder sometimes he can bear to look upon her.

Wilford. Eh ? why so ? Did not he bring her, under
his protection, to the Forest ; since, Yis said, she lost her
relations ?

AYinter. Hush, boy! on your life, do not name her
uncle — I would say her relations.

AYilford. Her uncle ! wherefore? Where’s the harm
of having an uncle, dead or alive ?

Winter. Peace, peace! In that uncle lies the secret.

AYilford. Indeed! how, good xAdam Winterton? I
prithee, how? Let us drink sir Edward’s health.

AAYnter. That I would, though ’twere a mile to the
bottom, (drinks) Ha, it’s cheering, i’faith !

Wilford. And this uncle, you say

Winter. Of Aladam Helen — ha! there lies the inischieL

AYilford. AA’^liat mischief can be in him? why, he is
dead.

Winter. Come nearer — see you prate not now, on your
life. Our good master. Sir Edward, was arraigned on his
account in open court.

AA'ilford. Arraigned I how mean you?

AYinter. Alas, boy ! tried. Tried for — nearer yet — his.
murder.

AYil ford. Mu — mu — murder !

sc. II.] THE IRON CHEST. 29

Winter. Why, what! why, Wilford ! out, alas! the
hoy^s passion will betray all ! what, Wilford, I say.

Wilford. You have curdled my blood !

Winter. What, varlet, thou darest not think ill of our
worthy master ?

AV ILFORD. I — I am his secretary. Often alone with
him at dead midnight, in his library. The candles in the
sockets — and a man glaring upon me who has committed
mur— ugh !

Winter. Committed! Thou art a base lying knave,

to say it ; and while I wear a rapier. I’ll tush !

Heaven help me 1 I forget I am fourscore. WelJ, well
— hear me, pettish boy, hear me. AVhy, look now, thou
•dost not attend.

Wilford. I — I mark ; I mark.

Winter. I tell thee, then, our good Sir Edward was
beloved in Kent, where he had returned a year before
from his travels; Madam Helen’s uncle was hated by all
the neighbourhood, rich and poor. A mere brute, dost
mark me.

Wilford. Like enough : but when brutes walk upon
two legs, the law of the land, thank Heaven ! will not
suffer us to butcher them.

Winter. Go to, you firebrand ! Our good master
laboured all he could, for many a month, to soothe his
turbulence, but in vain. He picked a quarrel with Sir
Edward in the public County Assembly ; nay, the strong
ruffian struck him down, and trampled on him. Think on
that, Wilford — on our good master Sir Edward, whose
great soul was nigh to burst with the indignity.

Wilford. Well, but the end on’t.

Winter. Why, our young master took horse for his
Dwn house, determined, as it appeared, to send a challenge
to this white-livered giant in the morning.

Wilford. I see. He killed him in a duel. That’s
another kind of butchery, which the law allows not, true
humanity shudders at, and false honour justifies.

Winter. See, now, how you fly off! Sir Edward’s
revenge, boy, was baffled ; for his antagonist was found
•dead in the street that night, killed, by some unkno^vn
assassins, on his return I'rom the assembly.

30

THE IRON CHEST.

[act I.

WiLFORD. Indeed! assassins !

Winter. Nay, His plain our good Sir Edward had no
hand in the wicked act, for he was tried, as I told you, at
the next assize. Mercy on me ! Hwas a crowded court ;
and how gentle and simple threw up their caps at his
acquittal 1 Heaven be thanked 1 he was cleared beyond
the shadow of doubt.

WiLFORD. He was ? — I breathe again. ^Twas a happy
thing. Twas the only way left of cleansing him from a
foul suspicion.

Winter. Out, alas! lad, His his principal grief. He
is full of nice feeling, and high flown honour ; and the
thought of being tried for such a crime has given him his
heart’s wound. Poor gentleman ! he has shunned the
world ever since. He was once the life of all company
but now !

Sir Edward Mortimer, [without^ r.) Wintertonl

Winter. Hark ! some one calls. Out oii thee ! thou
hast sunk my spirits into my heels. Who calls merry old
Adam Winterton?

Mortimer, (without) Adam Wintertonl come hither to
me.

Winter. Nay, by our lady, His Sir Edward himself!
Pestilence onH! if I seem sad now, Hwill be noted. I come,
good Sir Edward.

“ When birds’^ (not a word on thy life !) do carrol
on the bush,’^

“ With a hey ho nonny’’ Mercy on me !

Exit^ R.

WiLFORD. My throat’s parch’d, and my blood freezes.
A quart of brandy couldn’t moisten the one nor thaw the
other. This accounts, then, for all. Poor, unhappy gen-
tleman! This unravels all, from the first day of my
service — when a deep groan made me run into the library,
and I found him locking up his papers, in the iron chest,
as pale as ashes. Eh ! — What can be in that chest ? —

Perhaps some proof of no, I shudder at the suggestion.

’Tis not possible one so good can be guilty ot i know

not what to think — nor what to resolve. But curiosity is
roused, and, come what may. I’ll have an eye upon him.

Exit^ R.

sc. III.]

THE IRON CHEST.

31

Scene III. — A Library.

Sir Edward Mortimer discovered at a writing tahle^ c.
Adam WiNTERTON attending. Table., two chairs., a pistol
on table, Iron Chest, with key in it, l.

Mortimer. ^Tis his first trespass, so we’ll quit him,
Adam : —

But caution him how he offend again.

As keeper of the forest, I should fine him.

Winter, (r. c.) Nay that your worship should. He’ll
prove, ere long,

Mark but my words — a sturdy poacher. Well,

’Tis you know best.

Mortimer. Well, well, no matter, Adam;

He has a wife, and child.

Winter. Ah ! bless your honour !

Mortimer. They kill’d his dog?

Winter. Aye, marry, sir : — a lurcher.

Black Martin Wincot, the groom keeper, shot him ;
A perilous good aim. — I warrant me
The rogue has lived this year upon that lurcher.
Mortimer. Poor wretch ! Oh ! well bethought ; send
Walter to me

I would employ him ; he must ride for me,

On business of much import.

Winter. Lackaday !

That it should chance so ! I have sent him forth,

To Winchester, to buy me flannel hose ;

For winter’s coming on. Good lack ! that things
Should fall so crossly !

Mortimer. Nay, nay, do not fret :

’Tis better that my business cool, good Adam,

Than thy old limbs.

Winter. Ah! you’ve a kindly heart!

Mortimer. Is Wilford waiting?

Winter. Wilford! mercy on me!

I tremble now to hear his name. He is

Here in the hall, sir.

Mortimer. Send him in, I prithee.

Winter. I shall, sir. Heaven bless you! heaven bless
you ! Exit, R.

32 THE IRON CHEST. [ACT

Mortimer. Good morning, good old heart ! This honest

soul {rismg)

Would fain look cheery in my house^s gloom,

And, like a gay and sturdy ever- green,

Smiles in the midst of blast and desolation.

Where all around him withers. Well, well — wither I
Perish this frail and fickle frame ! — this clay.

That in its dross-like compound, doth contain
The mind’s pure ore and essence. — Oh! that mind I
That mind of man ! that god- like spring of action !
That source, whence learning, virtue, honour, flow! —
Which lifts us to the stars ; which carries us
O’er the swoll’n waters of the angry deep.

As swallows skim the air. — That Fame’s sole fountain!
That doth transmit a fair, and spotless name.

When the vile trunk is rotten : — Give me that!

Oh ! give me but to live, in after- age.

Remember’d and unsullied ! — Heaven and earth I
Let my pure flame of honour shine in story.

When I am cold in death — and the slow fire.

That wears my vitals now, will no more move me
Than 'twould a corpse within a monument.

{aknoclc at the door of the library^ R.)
How now ? Who’s there ! Come in.

Enter W ilford, r. d.

Wilford ! is’t you ? You were not wont to knock.
WiLFOKD. I fear’d I might surprise you, sir,

Mortimer. Surprise me !

Wilford. I mean — disturb you, sir : — yes — at your stu-
dies—

Disturb you at your studies.

Mortimer. Very strange!

You were not used to be so cautious.

Wilford. No —

I never used — but I — hum — I have learnt

Mortimer. Learnt!

Wilford. Better manners, sir. I was quite raw.

When, in your bounty, you first sheltered me :

But, thanks to your great goodness, and tlie lessons

THE IRON CHEST.

33

sc. III.]

Of Mr. Winterton, I still improve,

And pick up something daily.

Mortimer. Aye, indeed!

Winterton ! No he dare not. Hark you, sir.

(stepping up to him)

WiLFORD. Sir !

Mortimer, {retreating from Mm) What am I about ! — Oh,
honour ! honour !

Thy pile should be so uniform, displace
One atom of thee, and the slightest breath
Of a rude peasant makes thy owner tremble
For his whole building. Reach me, from the shelf,
The volume I was busied in, last night.

WiLFORD. Last night, sir?

Mortimer. Aye ; — it treats of Alexander.

WiLFORD. Oh, I remember, sir — of Macedon.

I made some extracts, by your order.

{goes to the bookcase)

Mortimer. Books

(My only commerce, now,) will sometimes rouse^
me

Beyond my nature. I have been so warm’d,

So heated, by a well-tum’d rhapsody.

That I have seem’d the hero of the tale.

So glowingly described. Draw me a man
Struggling for fame, attaining, keeping it,

Dead ages since, and the historian
Decking his memory in polish’d phrase.

And I can follow him through every turn.

Grow wild in his exploits, myself himself.

Until the thick pulsation of my heart
Wakes me, to ponder on the thing I am.

WiLFORD. (u — giving him the hook) To my poor thinking,,
sir, this Alexander

Would scarcely rouse a man to follow him.
Mortimer. Indeed 1 why so lad? He is reckoned brave^.

Wise, generous, learn’d, by older heads than thine.
WiLFORD. I cannot tell, sir : — I have but a gleaning. —
He conquer’d all the world; but left unconquer’d
A world of his own passions — and they led him,

(It seems so there) on petty provocation.

34

THE IRON CHEST.

[act I,

Even to murder.

(Mortimer starts — Wilford and he exchange looks
— both confused)

{aside) I have touched the string —

’Twas unawares — I cannot help it.

Mortimer, {attempting to recover himself) Wilford — Wil-
ford, I — you mistake the character —

I, mark you — he — death and eternal tortures !

{dashes the hook on the floor ^ and seizes Wilford)
Slave ! I will crush thee ! pulverise thy frame !

That no vile particle of prying nature

May — Ha, ha, ha I — I will not harm thee, boy

O, agony ! {rushes off^ r. door)

Wilford. Is this the high-flown honour, and delicate
feeling, old Winterton talked of, that cannot bear a glance
at the trial ? — Delicate! had I been born under a throttling
planet, I had never survived this collaring. This may be
guilt. If so — well, what have I to do with the knowledge
onT — what could I do ? cut off my benefactor ! who gives
me bread ! who is respected for his virtues, pitied for his
misfortunes, loved by his family, blessed by the poor!
Pooh ! he is innocent. This is his pride and shame. He
was acquitted — thousands witnessed it — thousands re-
joiced at it — thousands — eh ? the key left in the iron
chest! Circumstance and mystery tempt me at every
turn. Ought I — no matter. These are no common in-
citements, and I submit to the impulse. It opens with a
spring I see. I tremble in every joint, {goes to the chest)

Enter Sir Edward Mortimer, r. door.

Mortimer. I had forgot the key and — {sees Wilford) ha!
by hell 1

{snatches a pistol from the table., runs up to him., and
holds it to his head. AYilford on his knees., claps
down the lid of the chest which he has just opened.
After an apparent struggle of mind., Mortimer
throws the pistol from him)

Begone ! — Come back. — Come hither to me.

Mark me — I see thou dost at every turn —

And I have noted thee, too. Thou hast found
(I know not how) some clue to my disgrace : —

THE IRON CHEST.

35

SC. in.]

Aye, my disgrace — we must not mince it now —
Public dishonour ! — trod on ! — buffeted !

Then tried as the foul demon who had foiUd
My manly means of vengeance. Anguish gnaws me:
Mountains of shame are piled upon me ! — Me,

Who have made Fame my idol. 'Twas enough !

But something must be superadded. You, —

A worm, a viper I have warm’d, must plant,

In venom’ d sport, your sting into my wounds,

Too tender e’en for tenderness to touch,

And work me into madness. Thou wouldst question
My very — Slave ! — my very innocence !

Ne’er doubted yet by judges or arraigners.

Wretch ! you have wrung this from me. Be content ;
I am sunk low enough.

WiLFORD. {returning the key) Oh, sir ! I ever
Honour’d and lov’d ycu. But I merit all.

My passions hurried me I know not whither.

Do with me as you please, my kind, wrong’d master!

Discard me — thrust me forth — nay, kill me

Mortimer. Kill you !

WiLFORD. I know not what T say. I know but this,

That I would die to serve you.

Enter Gregory, r. door.

Gregory. Sir, your brother

Is just alighted at the gate.

Mortimer. My brother 1

He could not time it worse. Wilford, remember.
Come, shew me to him.

Exit loith Gregory, r. door.
Wilford. Remember ! I shall never while I live forget
it : nay, I shall never while I live forgive myself. My
knees knock together still, and the cold drops stand on
my forehead like rain water on a penthouse.

Enter Barbara, l. door.

Barbara. Wilford !

Wilford. Eh, Barbara! how earnest thou here?
Barbara. With my father, who waits below to see Sir
Edward.

36 THE IRON CHESr [act I.

WiLFORD. He he is busied ; he cannot see him now.

He is with his brother.

Barbara. Troth, I am sorry for it. My poor father^s
heart is bursting with gratitude, and he would fain ease it
by pouring out his thanks to his benefactor. Oh, Wilford,
yours is a happy lot to have such a master as Sir Edward.

Wilford. Happy? Oh, yes — I— I am very happy.

Barbara. Mercy ! has any ill befallen you ?

Wilford. No, nothing. ^Tis all my happiness. My
happiness is like your father’s gratitude, Barbara ; and at
times it goes near to choke me.

Barbara. Nay, I’m sure there’s more in this. Bless
me, you look pale! I couldn’t bear to see you ill or
uneasy, Wilford.

AVilforb. Couldn’t you, Barbara. AVell, well, I shall
be better presently. ’Tis nothing of import.

Barbara. Trust me, I hope not.

AVilford. AA'ell, question me no more on’t now, I be-
^ech you, Barbara.

Barbara. Believe me, I would not question you but to
console you, Wilford. I would scorn to pry into any
one’s grief, much more yours, AA^ilford, to satisfy a busy
curiosity ; though I am told there are such in the world
who would.

AVilford. I — I am afraid there are, Barbara. But
come, no more of this. ’Tis a passing cloud on my
spirits, and will soon blow over.

Barbara. Ah ! could I govern your fortunes, foul
weather should ne’er harm you.

Wilford. Should not it, sweet ! Kiss me. (Aj/sses Aer)
The lips of a woman are a sovereign cordial for melan-
choly.

Duet {often omitted) — Wilford and Barbara.

Wilford. Sweet little Barbara, when you are advancing, .

Sweet little Barbara, my cares you remove.
Barbara. Poor little Barbara can feel her heart dancing,
AVhen little Baruara is met by her love.
AVilford. When I am grieved, love, oh, what would you
say ?

«C. III.]
Barbara.

THE IRON CHEST.

37

Tattle to you, love,

And prattle to you, love.

And laugli your grief and care away.
WiLFORD. Sweet little Barbara, &c.

Barbara. Poor little Barbara, &c.

WlLFORD.

Barbara.

WlLFORD.

Barbara.

WlLFORD.

Barbara.

Yet, dearest Barbara, look all througli the nation ;

Care, soon or late, my love, is every man\s lot.
Sorrow and melancholy, grief and vexation,
When we are young and jolly, soon is forgot.
When we grow old, love ! then what will
you say ?

Tattle to you, love.

And prattle to you, love.

And laugh your care and grief away.

Sweet little Barbara, &c.
Poor little Barbara, &c.

Exeunt r. door.

END OP ACT FIRST.— (45 mhiutes)

ACT II.

Scene I. — The New Forest {Second grooves)

Enter Armstrong and Orson, r. u. e.

Armstrong. Go to ; I tell thee, Orson (as I have told
thee more than once) that thou art too sanguinary.

Orson. And I tell you. Captain Armstrong — but always
under favour, you being our leader — you are too humane.

Armstrong. Humanity is scarcely counted a fault : if
so, ^tis a fault on the right side.

Orson. Umph 1 perhaps not with us. We are robbers.

Armstrong. And why should robbers lack humanity ?
They who plunder most respect it as a virtue, and make a
.shew on’t to gild their vices. Lawyers, physicians,
placemen, all — all plunder and slay, but all pretend to
humanity.

Orson. They are regulars, and plunder bj lice nee.

D

38 THE IRON CHEST. [ACT II.

Armstrong. Then let us quacks set the regulars a
better example.

Orson. Tliis humanity, captain, is a high horse you are
ever bestride upon. Some day, mark my word, hell
fling you.

Armstrong. Cruelty is a more dangerous beast . —
When the rider’s thrown, his brains are kicked out, and
no one pities him.

Orson. Like enough ; but your tough horseman, who
ventures boldly, is never dismounted. When I am en-
gaged in a desperate chase (as we are, captain,) I stick at
nothing. I hate milk sops.

Armstrong. And love mutiny. Take heed, Orson ; I
have before cautioned you not to glance at me.

Orson. I say nothing : but if some escape to inform
against us, whom we have robbed, ’tis none of my fault.
Dead men tell no tales.

Armstrong. Wretch ! Speak that again, and you shall
tell none, {holds a carbine to his head)

Orson. Flii^sh away ! I don’t fear death.

Armstrong. More shame to thee ; for thou art unfit to
meet it.

Orson. I know my trade. I set powder, ball, and rope,
at defiance.

Armstrong. Brute ! You mistake headstrong insensi-
bility for courage. Do not mistake my horror of it for
cowardice : for I, who shudder at cruelty, will fell your
boldness to the earth, when I see you practise it. Submit.

Orson. I do. I know not what ’tis, but I have told
you, often, that there is something about you awes me. I
cannot tell — I could kill twenty to your one.

Armstrong. There ’tis. — Thou wouldst dart upon the
weak, unguarded man, like a tiger. A ferocious animal,
whether crawling or erect, ever slinks from fair opposition.

Orson. My courage was never yet doubted, captain.

Armstrong. Your nerves, fool. Thou art a mere ma-
chine. Could I but give it motion, I would take an oak
from the forest, here, clap a flint into it for heart, and
make as bold a fellow as thou art. Listen to my orders.

Orson. I obey.

Armstrong. Get thee to our den. {ci'osses^ r.) Put on

THE IKON CHEST.

39

sc. I.]

thy disguise ; then hie thee to the market -town for provi-
sion for our company. Here — here is part of the spoil we
took yesternight : see you bring an honest account of
what you lay out. [giving money)

Orson. My honour !

Armstrong. Well, I do not doubt thee, here. Our
profession is singular; its followers do not cheat one
another. You will not be back till dusk. See you fall
not on any poor straggling peasant, as you return.

Orson. I would fain encounter the solitary man, who is
sometimes wandering by night, about the forest. He is
rich.

Armstrong. Not for your life. ^Tis Sir Edward Mor-
timer, the head keeper. Touch him not ; 'tis too near
home. Besides, he is no object for plunder. I have
watch’d him, at midnight, stealing from his lodge, to
wander like one crazed. He is good, too, to the poor ;
and should walk unmolested by charity’s charter. ’Twere
pity that he who administers to necessity, all day, should
be rifled by necessity at night. An thou shouldst meet
him, I charge thee spare him.

Orson. I must, if it be your order. This sparing doc-
trine will go nigh, at last, to starve all tlie thieves. When
a man takes to the trade of a wolf, he should not go like
a lamb to his business. Exit^ r.

Armstrong. This fellow is a downright villain : har-
dened and relentless. I have felt, in my penury, the world
trample on me. It has driven me to take that, desperately,
which wanting I should starve. Death ! my spirit cannot
brook to see a sleek knave walk negligently by his fellow
in misery, and suffer him to rot, I will wrench that comfort
from him which he will not bestow. But nature puts a
bar ; let liim administer to my wants, and pass on : I have
done with him.

Song. — Armstrong.

When the robber his victim has noted,

When the freebooter darts on his prey,

Let humanity spare the devoted —

Let mercy forbid him to slay.

40

THE IRON CHEST.

[act II.

SincG my hope is by penury blighted,
iNIy sword must the traveller daunt ;

I will snatch from the rich man, benighted,

The gold he denies to my want.

But the victim when once I have noted,

At my foot when I look on my prey,

Let humanity spare the devoted —

Let mercy forbid me to slay.

Scene II. — The Hall in Sir Edward Mortimer's Lodge*
Enter Fitzharding, l.

Fitz. Well, business must be minded ; but he stays
A tedious time, methinks. You fellow !

To Peter crossing the hall^ l. to r.

Peter. Sir !

Fitz. Whereas Sir Tristful ! where’s Don Melancholy?

Peter. Who, sir?

Fitz. My brother, knave. Sir Edward Mortimer.

Peter. He was with you but now, sir.

Frrz. Sir, I thank you—

That’s information. Louts and serving- men
Can never parley straight. Who brought in my
luggage ?

Peter. It was not I, sir.

Fitz. There, they never can !

Go to your master ; pray him to dispatch
His household work ; tell him I hate fat folios.
Plague ! when I cross the country, here, to see him^
He leaves me ramm’d into an elbow chair,

Witli a huge, heavy book, that makes me nod.

Then tumbles on my toes. Tell him, dost hear,
Captain Fitzharding’ s company has tired me.

Peter. AVhose company?

Fitz. My own, knave.

Peter. Sir, I shall.

Exit^ L.

Fitz. A hook to me’s a sovereign narcotic,

A lump of opium, every line a dose.

THE IRON CHEST.

41

sc. II.]

Edward is all deep reading and black letter —

He shews it in liis very cliin. He speaks
Merc dictionary, and he pores on pages
That give plain men the headache. ‘‘ Scarce and
curious,^’

Are baits his learning nibbles at. His brain
Is crammed with mouldy volumes, cramp and useless,
Like a librarian’s lumber room. Poor fellow !

Grief will do much 1 well, some it drives to reading.

And some to drinking ; ’twill do much ! this trial

A fool to fret so for’t! his honour’s clear.

Tut ! I’m a soldier — know what honour is.

Had I been slander’d, and a fair court martial
Cleansed me from calumny, as white as snow,

I had ne’er moped, and fumed, and winced, and kicked.
But sat down heart whole. Plague upon’t ! this house
Appears the very cave of melancholy.

Nay, hold, I lie ; here comes a petticoat.

Enter Blanch, r., crosses l.

Od! a rare wench ! This is the best edition
In Edward’s whole collection. Here, come hither !
Let me peruse you.

Blanch. Would you speak with me, sir;

Fitz. Aye, child. I’m going now to read you.

Blanch. Read me !

You’ll find me full of errors, sir.

Fitz. No matter.

Come nearer, child : I cannot see to read
At such a distance.

Blanch. You had better, sir.

Put on your spectacles.

Fitz. Aye, there she has me !

A plague upon old Time ! old scythe and hour glass
Has set his mark upon me. Harkye, child :

You do not know me. You and I must have
Better acquaintance.

Blanch. 0, I’ve heard of you.

You are Sir Edward’s kinsman, sir — his brother.
Fitz. Aye — Ids half brother — by the mother’s side —

His elder brother.

42

THE IRON CHEST.

[act II.

Blanch. Yes sir, I see that.

Fitz. This gipsy’s tongue is like her eye : I know not
Which is the sharpest. Tell me what’s your name.
Blanch. My name is Blanch, sir, born here, in the forest.
Fitz. Sbud ! I must be a keeper in this forest.

Whither art going, sweet one ?

Blanch. Home, sir.

Fitz. Home !

Why is not this thy home ?

Blanch. No, sir ; I live

Some half mile hence — with Madam Helen, sir.

I brought a letter from her, to Sir Edward.

Fitz. Odso, with Helen! So, with her! the object
Of my grave brother’s groaning passion. Plague !

I would ’twere in the house. I do not like
Your rheumatic, October assignations,

Under an elm, by moonlight. This will end
In flannels and seiatica. My passion
Is not Arcadian. Tell me, pretty one.

Shall I walk with you, home ?

Blanch. No, sir, I thank you,

It would fatigue you, sadly.

Fitz. Fatigue me !

Oons ! this wild forest filly, here, would make me
Grandfather to Methusaleh. Look here —

Here is a purse of money.

Blanch. 0, the father I

AVhat will you give me any ?

Fitz. Gold I find

The universal key ; the passe par tout
It will unlock a forest maiden’s heart.

As easy as a politician’s. Here ;

Here are two pieces, rose-bud. Buy a top-knot;
Make thyself happy with them.

Blanch, That I will.

The poor old woman, northward of the lodge.

Lies sick in bed. I’ll take her this, poor soul.

To comfort her.

Fitz. Hold ! — hey the devil ! — hold.

This was not meant to comfort an old woman.
Blanch. Why, wouldn’t you relieve her, sir?

THE IRON CHEST.

43

SC. II.]

Fitz. Um ? — yes : —

But — pshaw ! pooh, prithee — there^s a time for
things.

Why tell me of her now, — of an old fool, —

Of comforting the aged, now ?

Blanch. I thought

That you might have a fellow feeling, sir.

Fitz. This little pastoral deviTs laughing at me !

Oons ! come and kiss me, jade. I am a soldier,

And Justice of Peace.

Blanch. Then shame upon you !

Your double calling might have taught you better.

I see your drift now. Take your dirt again,

(throws down the money)

Good Captain- Justice ! — Stoop for it, — and think
How an old soldier, and a justice, looks,

When he is picking up the bribes he offers.

To injure the helpless, the poor, and innocent,

He should protect. Exit^ l

Fitz. I warrant me,

Could I but see my face, now, in a glass,

That I look wond’rous sheepish. I’m ashamed
To pick up the two pieces. Let them lie.

I would not wrong the innocent ; — good reason ; —
There be so few that are so : — she is honest ;
must make reparation. Odso ! WilfordI

Enter Wilford, l.

How fares it, boy?

Wilford. I thank you, sir. I hope you have enjoy’d
Your health, these three months past, since last you
honour’d us

With your good presence, at the lodge.

Fitz. Indifferent.

Some cramps and shooting pains, boy. I have dropt
Some cash here, but I am afraid to bend
To pick it up again, lest it should give me
An awkward twinge. Stoop for it, honest Wilford.
There’s a good lad!

Wilford. Right willingly, sir. (picks up the money ^ k.)
Fitz. So !

44

THE IRON CHEST.

[act lU

The soldier and the justice save their blushes.

Now, carry it, I prithee, at your leisure,

To an old gossip, near the lodge here — northward—
Vwe heard of her — she^s bed-ridden, and sick.

You need not say who sent you.

IYilford. I conceive.

^Tis private bounty ; that^s true charity.

Fitz. Nay, pish ! — my charity !

WiLFORD. Nay, I could swear

’Th not the first time you have offered this
In secret.

Fitz. Um ! — why no ; not quite the first.

But tell me, lad, how jogs the world here, eh ?

In Rueful Castle. Harkye, Wilford, harkye !
Thou^rt a sly rogue ! What, you could never tell me
Of Helenas waiting maid ; the little cherry ; —

Of plague upon her name ! — of

Wilford. Blanch, sir?

Fitz. Blanch ;

That’s it ; the forest fairy. You and I

Must have some talk about her come hither.

(the^ retire to the hack^ L.)

Enter Sir Edward Mortimer, r.

Mortimer. Now for my brother, and — ha ! Wilford with
him !

That imp is made my scourge. They wliisper too.
Oli^ I had rather court the thunder -bolt.

To melt my bones, and pound me to a mass,

Thau suffer this vile canker to corrode me.

Wilford !

WiLFOKD. Who calls ? — eh ! — ’tis Sir Edward.

[comes centre)

Fitz. Mum!

Mortimer. I seem to interrupt you.

Wilford. [earnestly) No indeed.

No, on my life, sir ; — we were only talking
Of

Fitz. Hold your tongue. Oons ! boy, you must not tell.
Mortimer. Not !

Fitz. Not I no, to be sure : — wliy, ’tis a secret.

sc. II.] THE IRON CHEST. 45

WiLFORD. You shall know all, sir. — Twas a trifle — ^no-
thing—

In faith, you shall know all.

Fitz. In faith, you lie.

Be satisfied, good Edward : — ^tis a toy. — (crosseSyC.y
But, of all men, I would not have thee know on^t
It is a tender subject.

Mortimer. Aye, indeed.

Fitz. May not I have my secret ? Oons ! good brother.
What would you say, now, should a meddling knave
Busy his brains with matters, though but trivial.
Which concern you alone?

Mortimer. I’d have him rot :

Die piecemeal ; pine ; moulder in misery.

Agent, and sacrifice to heaven’s wrath.

When castigating plagues are hurl’d on man.

Stands lean, and lynx-eyed Curiosity,

Watching his neighbour’s soul. Sleepless himself,

To banish sleep from others. Like a leech.

Sucking the blood- drops from a care-worn heart,

He gorges on’t — then renders up his food.

To nourish Calumny, his foul-lung’ d mate,

Who carries Rumour’s trumpet, and whose breath,,
Infecting the wide surface of the world.

Strikes pestilence and blight. Oh, fie on’t ! fie !
Whip me the curious wretch from pole to pole !

Who writhes in fire, and scorches all around him,

A victim making victims !

Fitz. By the mass,

’Twere a sound whipping that, from pole to pole !
From constable to constable might serve.

Mortimer. Your pardon, brother;

I had forgot. Wilford, I’ve business for you.

Wait for me — aye — an hour after dinner.

Wait for me in the library. ^

Wilford. The library ! —

I sicken at the sound, [aside) AVait there for you —
and —

Captain Fitzliarding, sir?

Mortimer. For me, alone.

Wilford. Alone, sir !

46

THE IRON CHEST.

[act II.

Mortimer. Yes, — begone !

WiLFORD. I shall, sir — {crosses^ R.) but^

If I have ever breath’d a syllable

That might displease you, may

Mortimer. Fool ! breathe no more.

WiLFORD. I’m dumb.

I’d rather step into a lion’s den,

Than meet him in the library ! — I go, sir. Exit^ R.

Fitz. Brother, you are too harsh with that poor boy.
Mortimer. Brother, a man must rule his family
In his own way.

Fitz. Well, well, well — don’t be touchy.

I speak not to offend : I only speak
On a friend’s privilege. The poor are men,

And have their feelings, brother.

Mortimer. So have I !

Fitz. One of the best that we can shew, believe me.

Is mildness to a servant. Servants, brother,

Are born with fortune’s yoke about their necks ;

And that is galling in itself enough ;

We should not goad them under it. The master
Should rather cheer them in their servitude,

With kindly words.

Mortimer. Brother, your hand. You have a gentle na-
ture—

May no mischance e’er ruffle it, my brother?

I’ve known thee from my infancy, old soldier ;

And never did I know — I do not flatter —

A heart more stout, more cased with hardy manhood,
More full of milk within. Trust me, dear friend,

If admiration of thy charity
May argue charity in the admirer,

I am not destitute.

Fitz. You — I have seen you

Sometimes o’erflow with it.

Mortimer. And what avails it?

Honour has been my theme, good will to man
My study. I have labour’d for a name
As white as mountain snow ; dazzling, and specldess
Shame on’t! ’tis blurred with blots! Fate, like
mildew,

THE IKON CHEST.

47

SC. II.J

Kuins the virtuous harvest I would reap,

And all my crop is weeds, {crosses, l.)

Fitz. Why, how now, brother !

This is all spleen. You mope yourself too much.

In this dull forest here. Twenty blue devils
Are dancing jigs, and hornpipes, in your brains.

Fie, fie ! be more a man. Come, come, rouse you!

I came on purpose, thirty miles from home.

To jog your spirits. Prithee, now be gay !

And, prithee, too, be kind to my young favourite !

To Wilford, there.

Mortimer. Well, well; I hope I have been.

Fitz. No doubt, in actions : — but in words, and looks. —
A. rugged look\s a damper to a greenhorn.

I watched him, now, when you frown’d angerly ;

And he betray’d

Mortimer. Betray’d !

Fitz. Ten thousand fears.

Mortimer. Oh !

Fitz. The poor devil couldn’t shew more scared

Had you e’en held a pistol to his head. (MoRTiMERstor^^)
Why hey-day! what’s the matter?

Mortimer. Brother I

Question me not ; my nerves are aspen-like :

The slightest breath will shake ’em. Come, good
brother.

Fitz. You’ll promise to be gay?

'Mortimer. I’ll do my best.

Fitz. AVhy that’s well said! A man can do no more.

Od ! I believe my rattling talk has given you
A stir already.

Mortimer. That it has indeed ! Come, brother !

Exeunt r.

Scene III. — Lad^ Helenas House.

Enter Helen, r., and Samson, l.

Helen. Are you he that wish to enter in my service ?
Samson. Yes, so please you. Madam Helen, for want of
a, better.

48 THE IRON CHEST. [ACT II.

TIelen. Why, I ‘have seen you in the forest — at Raw-
bold’s cottage. He is your father, as I think.

Samson. Yes, so please you, madam, for want of a better.

Helen. I fear me you may well say that. Your father,
;as I have heard, bears an ill name in the forest..

Samson. x\las ! madam, he is obliged to bear it, for
want of a better. We are all famish’d, madam : and the
naked and hungry have seldom many friends to speak
well of them.

Helen. If I should hire thee, who will give thee a
character ?

Samson. My father, madam.

Helen. Why, sirrah, he has none of his own.

Samson. The more fatherly in him, madam, to give his
^son what he has need of for himself. But a knave is often
applied to, to t^ouch for a good servant’s honesty. I wdll
serve you as faithfully as your last footman ; who, I have
heard, ran away this morning,

Helen. Truly, he did so.

Samson. I was told on’t, some half-hour ago ; and ran,
hungrily, hither, to offer myself. So, please you, let not
poverty stand in the way of my preferment.

Helen. Should I entertain you, what could you do to
make yourself useful ?

Samson. Any thing. I can wire hares, snare partridges,
shoot a buck, and smuggle brandy, for you, madam.

Helen. Fie on you knave ! ’Twere fitter to turn you
over to the verderors of the forest, for punishment, than
to encourage you in such practices.

Samson. 1 would practise any thing better, that might
get me bread. I would scrape trenchers, fill buckets, and
carry a message. What can a man do ! He can’t starve.

Helen. Well, sirrah, to snatch thee from evil, I care
not if I make trial of thee.

Samson. No! will you?

Helen. Nineteen in twenty might question my prudence
for this : — ^but, whatever loss I may suffer from thy
roguery, the thought of having opened a path to lead a
needy wanderer back to virtue will more than repay me.

Samson. Oh, bless you, lady ! If I do not prove vir-
tuous never trust in man more. I am overjoyed !

4SC. III.] THE IRON CHEST. 49

Helen. Get thee to the kitcheu. You will fiijjd a livery
there will suit you.

Samson. A livery! oh, the father! Virtuous and a
livery, all in a few seconds ! Heaven bless you i
Helen. Well, get you to your -work.

Samson. I go, madam. If I break any thing to-day,
beseech you let it go for nothing ; for joy makes my hand
tremble. Should you want me, please to cry Samson, and
I am with you in a twinkling. Heaven bless you ! Here’s
fortune ! Exit^ l.

Helen. Blanch stays a tedious time. Heaven send
Mortimer’s health be not worse ! He is sadly altered
since we came to the forest. I dreamed last night, of the
fire he saved me from ; and I saw him, all fresh, in manly
bloom, bearing me through the flames, even as it once
happened.

Enter Blanch, l.

Helen. How now, wench ! You have almost tired my
patience.

Blanch. And my own legs, madam. If the old footman
had not made so much use of his, by running away, they
might have spared mine.

Helen. Inform me of Sir Edward Mortimer,

Hast seen him ?

Blanch. Yes, I have, madam.

Helen. Say ; tell me ;

How look’d he? how’s his health? is he in spirits?
What said he, Blanch ? Will he be here to-day ?
Blanch. A little breath, madam, and I will answer all,
duly.

Helen. Oh ! fie upon thee, wench !

These interrogatories should be answered
Quicker than breath can utter them.

Blanch. That’s impossible, lady.

Helen. Thou would’ st not say so hadst tliou ever loved.
Love has a fleeter messenger than speech,

To tell love’s meaning. His expresecs post
Upon the orbs of vision, ere the tongue
Can shape them into words. A lover’s look
Is his heart’s Mercury. Oh, the eye’s- eloquence,

E

50 THE IRON CHEST. [ACT IT.

Twin-born with tlionglit, outstrips the tardy voice,
Far swifter than the nimble lightning’s fl^h
The sluggish tliunder-peal that follows it.

Blanch. I am not slvilhd in eye- talking, madam. I
have been used to let my discourse ride upon my tongue,
and, I have been told, ’twill trot at a good round pace
upon occasion.

IIelen. Then let it gallop, now, beseech you, wench.

And bring me news of Mortimer.

Blanch. Then, madam, I saw Sir Edward in his library,
and delivered your letter. He will be here either in the
evening, or on the morrow : ’tis uncertain which — for his
brother, Captain Fitzharding, is arrived, on a visit to him ;
but his letter may chance to specify further particulars.
Helen. His letter ! Has he written ? — fie upon thee !
Why didst not give it me at once ? Where is it ?
Thou art turn’d dreamer, wench. — Come quickly.

Blanch. You talked to me so much of reading eyes,
madam, that I even forgot the letter. Here it is.

Helen. Come to me, shortly, in my cabinet :

I’ll read it there. — I am almost unfit
To open it. I never receive his letters
But my hand trembles. Well, I know ’tis silly ;
And yet I cannot help it. I will ring ;

Then come to me, good Blanch — not yet. My Mortimer,
Now for your letter ! Exit^ r.

Blanch. I would they were wedded once, and all this
trembling would be over. I am told your married lady’s
feelings are little roused in reading letters from a husband.

Enter Samson, dressed in a livery^ l.

Samson. This sudden turn of fortune might puif some
men up with pride. I have looked in the glass already :
—and if ever man looked braver in a glass than I, I know
nothing of finery, [strutting across to r.)

Blanch. Hey-dey ! who have we here ?

Samson. Oh, lord I this is the maid. 1 mean the

waiting- woman. I warrant we shall be rare company, in
a long winter’s evening.

Blanch. Why, who are you ?

Samson. I’m your fellow-servant : — the new comer.

THE IRON CHEST.

SC. III.]

51

The last footman cast his skin in the pantry this morning,
and I have crept into it.

Blanch. AVhy, sure, it cannot be ! — Now I look upon
you agam, you are Samson Rawbold — old Rawbold’s son,
of the forest here.

Samson. The same ; I am not like some upstarts ; when
I am prosperous, I do not turn my back on my poor re-
lations.

Blanch. What, has my lady hired thee ?

Samson. She has taken me, like a pad nag, upon trial.

Blanch. I suspect you will play her a jade's trick, and
stumble in your probation. You have been caught trip-
ping, ere now.

Samson. An I do not give content, 'tis none of my fault.
A man's qualities cannot come out all at once. I wish
you would teach me a little how to lay a cloth.

Blanch. You are well qualified for your office truly,
not to know that.

Samson. To say truth, we had little practice that way
at home. We stood not upon forms. We had sometimes
no cloth for a dinner.

Blanch. And, sometimes, no dinner for a cloth.

Samson. Just so. We had little order in our family.

Blanch. Well, I will instruct you.

Samson. That's kind. I will be grateful. They tell
me I have learnt nothing but wickedness yet : but I will
instruct you in any thing I know, in return.

Blanch. There I have no mind to become your scholar.
But be steady in your service, and you may outlive your
beggary, and grow into respect. Exit^ r.

Samson. Nay, an riches rain upon me, respect will grow
of course. I never knew a rich man yet who wanted fol-
lowers to pull off their caps to him.

Song, — Samson.

A traveller stopped at a widow's gate ;

She kept an inn, and he wanted to bait ; —

But the landlady slighted her guest :

For when Nature was making an ugly race.

She certainly moulded this traveller's face
As a sample for the rest.

U. or ILL LIB.

52

THE IRON CHEST.

[act II.

The chamber- maid^s sides they were ready to crack,

When she saw his queer nose, and the hump at his back
A hump isn’t handsome, no doubt —

And though ’tis confess'd that the prejudice goes,

Very strongly, in favour of wearing a nose,

Yet a nose shouldn’t look like a snout

A bag full of gold on the table he laid —

’T had a wond’rous effect on the widow and maid !

And they quickly grew marvellous civil.

The money immediately alter’d the case ;

They were charm’d with hishump, and his snout, andhisface,.
Though he still might have frighted the devil.

He paid like a prince — gave the widow a smack —

Then dop’d on his horse, at the door, like a sack ;

While the landlady, touching the chink.

Cried — Sir, should you travel this country again,

I heartily hope that the sweetest of men
“ Will stop at the widow’s to drink.”

Exit^

Scene IV. — The Library ; key in r. door^ and key m
L. door.

WiLFORD, discovered.

WiLFORD. I would Sir Edward were come ! The dread
jf a fearful encounter is often as terrible as the encounter
itself. Yet my encounters with him of late are no trifles.
Pie’s coming. — No. The old wainscot cracks, and frightens
me out of my wits : and, I verily believe, the great folio
dropt on my head, just now, from the shelf, on purpose to
increase my terrors.

Enter Sir Edward Mortimer, at r. door of the library^
which he locks after him. Wilford turns round on hear-^
ing him shut it.

Wilford. What’s that? — ’Tis he himself ! Mercy on
me ! he has locked the door ! — What is going to become*
of me !

Mortimer. Wilford ! — Is no one in the picture gallery?

THE IRON CHEST.

53

€. IV.]

WiLFORD. No — not a soul, sir — Not a human soul. —
None within hearing, if I were to call
Ever so loud.

Mortimer, Lock yonder door. {j)ointing to l. door)

WiLFORD. The door, sir!

Mortimer. Do as I bid you.

WiLFORD. What, sir! Lock

(Mortimer waves with his hand^ and brings down
chair on which^ he sits)

I shall, sir. {going to the l. door and locking it)
Mortimer. Wilford, approach me. — What am 1 to say
For aiming at your life ! —Do you not scorn me,
Despise me for it ?

Wilford. I! oh, sir

Mortimer. You must.

For I am singled from the herd of men,

A vile, heart-broken wretch !

Wilford. Indeed, indeed, sir,

You deeply wrong yourself. Your equal’s love,

The poor man^s prayer, the orphan’s tear of gratitude
All follow you — and I — I owe you all !

I am most bound to bless you.

Mortimer. Mark me, Wilford, —

I know the value of the orphan’s tear,

The poor man’s prayer, respect from the respected ;

I feel to merit, these, and to obtain them.

Is to taste here, below, that thrilling cordial
Which the remunerating angel draws,

Prom the eternal fountains of delight.

To pour on blessed souls, that enter heaven,

I feel this — I — How must my nature, then,

Revolt at him who seeks to stain his hand
In human blood ? — and yet it seems, this day,

I sought your life. — Oh ! I have suffer’d madness —
None know my tortures — pangs ! — but I can end them:
End them as far as appertains to thee. —

I have resolved it. — Hell-born struggles tear me !
But I have ponder’d on’t, — and I must trust thee. —

Wilford. Your confidence shall not be

Mortimer. You must swear.

Wilford. Swear, sir! — will nothing but an oatli, then —

54

THE IRON CHEST,

[act II.

Mortimer, (rises and seizes Wilford^s arm) Listen.

May all the ills that wait on frail humanity
Be doubled on your head, if you disclose
My fatal secret ! May your body turn
Most lazar-like and loathsome ; and your mind
More loathsome than your body ! May those fiends
Who strangle babes, for very wantonness.

Shrink back, and shudder at your monstrous crimes,
And shrinking, curse you ! Palsies strike your youth !
And the sharp terrors of a guilty mind
Poison your aged days ; while all your nights.

As on the earth you lay your houseless head.

Out- horror horror ! May you quit the world
Abhor’ d, self- hated, hopeless for the next.

Your life a burthen, and your death a fear!

WiLFORD. For mercy’s sake, forbear ! you terrify me !
Mortimer. Hope this may fall upon thee ; — swear thou
hopest it.

By every attribute which heaven, earth, hell.

Can lend, to bind, and strengthen conjuration.

If thou betray’ st me.

Well I (hesitating)

No retreating !

WiLFORD.

Mortimer.

WiLFORD. (after a pause) I swear, by all the ties that bind
a man.

Divine, or human, — never to divulge !

Mortimer. Remember, you have sought this secret: — Yes,
Extorted it. I have not thrust it on you.

’Tis big with danger to you ; and to me.

While I prepare to speak, torment unutterable.
Know, Wilford, that — damnation !

WiLFORD. Dearest sir!

Collect yourself. This shakes you horribly.

You had this trembling, it is scarce a week.

At Madam Helen’s.

Mortimer. There it is. — Her uncle !

Wilford. Her uncle !

Mortimer. Him. She knows it not— none

know it —

You are the first ordained to hear me say,

I am — his murderer.

THE IRON CHEST,

55

»C. IV.]

WiLFORD.

Mortimer.

0, heaven !

His assassin.

WiLFORD. What you that — mur — the murder — I am

choked !

Mortimer. Honour, thou blood-stained god! at whose
red altar

Sit war and homicide, Oh, to what madness
Will insult drive thy votaries! By heaven I
In the workVs range there does not breathe a maa
Whose brutal nature I more strove to soothe,

With long forbearance, kindness, courtesy.

Than he who fell by me. But he disgraced me,
Stained me,— oh, death, and shame! — the world
look’d on,

And saw this sinewy savage strike me down ;

Rain blows upon me, drag me to and fro.

On the base earth, like carrion. Desperation,

In every fibre of my frame, cried vengeance !

I left the room which he had quitted. Chance,
(Curse on the chance!) while boiling with my wrongs,
Thrust me upon him, darkling, in the street : —

I stab’d him to the heart : — and my oppressor
Roll’d, lifeless, at my foot, {crosses, l.)

"WiLFORD. Oh! mercy on me!

How could this deed be cover’d !

Mortimer. Would you think it?

E’en at the moment when I gave the blow.

Butcher’d a fellow-creature in the dark,

I had all good men’s love. But my disgrace.

And my opponent’s death, thus link’d with it.
Demanded notice of the magistracy.

They summon’d me, as friend would summon friend,
To acts of import and communication.

We met : and ’twas resolv’d to stifle rumour,

To put me on my trial. No accuser.

No evidence appeared, to urge it on.

Twas meant to clear my fame. — How clear it, then?
How cover it ? you say. Why, by a lie :

Guilt’s offspring, and its guard. I taught this breast.
Which Truth once made her throne, to forge a lie;
This tongue to utter it. — Rounded a tale.

56

THE IRON CHEST.

[act II*

Smooth as a seraph’s song from Satan’s mouth ;

So well compacted, that the o’er- throng’d court
Disturb’d cool Justice, in her judgment- seat,

By shouting ‘‘ Innocence !” ere I had finished.

The court enlarged me ; and the giddy rabble
Bore me, in triumph, home, {crosses^ r.) Aye! — look
upon me. —

I know thy sight aches at me.

WiLFORD. Heaven forgive me I

I think I love you still : — but I am young ;

I know not what to say : — it may be wrong. —
Indeed I pity you.

Mortimer. I disdain all pity —

I ask no consolation. Idle boy I
Think’ st thou that this compulsive confidence
Was given to move thy pity ? Love of fame
^or still I cling to it) has urged me, thus,

To quash thy curious mischief in its birth.

Hurt honour, in an evil, cursed hour.

Drove me to murder — lying : — ’twould again.

My honesty, — sweet peace of mind, — all, all!

Are barter’d for a name. I will maintain it.

Should slander whisper o’er my sepulchre,

And my soul’s agency survive in death,

I could embody it with heaven’s lightning,

And the hot shaft of my insulted spirit

Should strike the blaster of my memory

Dead in the churchyard. Boy, I would not kill thee :

Thy rashness and discernment threaten’d danger:

To check them there was no way left but this : —
Save one — your death : — you shall not be my victim.
WiLFORD. My death! what take my life ? — my life! to prop
This empty honour.

Mortimer. Empty ! grovelling fool !

WiLFORD. I am your servant, sir : child of your bounty ;
And know my obligation. I have been
Too curious, haply ; ’tis the fault of youth.

I ne’er meant injury : if it would serve you,

I would lay down my life ; I’d give it freely : —
Could you, then, have the heart to rob me of it ?
You could not ; — should not.

THE lEON CHEST.

57

sc. IV.]

Mortimer. How !

WiLFORD. You dare not.

Mortimer. Dare not!

WiLFORD. Some hours ago you durst not. Passion moved
you;

Reflection interposed, and held your arm.

But, should reflection prompt you to attempt it,

My innocence would give me strength to struggle,
And wrest the murderous weapon from your hand.
How would you look to find a peasant boy
Return the knife you le veil’d at his heart ;

And ask you which in heaven would shew the best,
A rich man’s honour, or a poor man’s honesty?
Mortimer. ’Tis plain I dare not take your life. To
spare it,

I have endanger’d mine. But dread my power ; —
You know not its extent. Be warn’d in time :

Trifle not with my feelings. Listen, sir I
Myriads of engines, which my secret working
Can rouse to action, now encircle you.

I speak not vaguely. You have heard my principle p,
Have heard, already, what it can effect ;

Be cautious how you thwart it. Shun my brother
Your ruin hangs upon a thread : Provoke me,

And it shall fall upon you. Dare to make
The slightest movement to awake my fears.

And the gaunt criminal, naked and stake- tied,

Left on the heath, to blister in the sun,

^Till lingering death shall end his agony.

Compared to thee, shall seem more enviable
'Than cherubs to the damn’d.

WiLFORD. 0, misery!

Discard me, sir ! I must be hateful to you.

Banish me hence. I will be mute as death ;

But let me quit your service.

Mortimer. Never. — Fool !

To buy this secret, you have sold yourself.

Your movements, eyes, and, most of all, your breath,,
From this time forth, are fetter’d to my will.

You have said, truly : you are hateful to me : —

Yet you shall feel my bounty : — that shall flow.

58

THE IRON CHEST.

[act II*

And swell your fortunes ; but my inmost soul
Will yearn with loathing, when — {knock at r. door)
hark ! some one knocks !

(WiLFORD opens the door^ Winterton comes in)
How now, Winterton?

Did you knock more than once ? Speak — did you
listen —

I mean, good Adam, did you wait? — Aye, wait
Long at the door, here ?

Winter. Bless your honour ! no.

You are too good to let the old man wait.

Mortimer. What, then, our talk, here — Wilford^s here
and mine —

Did not detain you at the door ? — Ha ! — did it ?
Winter. Not half a second.

Mortimer. Oh ! — well, what^s the matter?

Winter. Captain Fitzharding, sir, entreats your company.
IVe placed another flaggon on the table.

Your worship knows it. — Number thirty-five
The supernaculum.

Mortimer. Well, well — I come.

What, has he been alone ?

Winter. No — IVe been with him.

Od ! he's a merry man ! and does so jest !

He calls me first of men, 'cause my name's Adam.
Well ! 'tis exceeding pleasant, by St. Tliomas !
Mortimer. Come, Adam; I'll attend the captain. — Wilford,
What I have just now given you in charge,

Be sure to keep fast lock'd. I shall be angry, —

Be very angry if I find you careless.

FoUow me, Adam.

Exit Mortimer, r. door — Winterton following.
WiLFORD. This house is no house for me. Fly I will,
I am resolved : — but wdiither ? His threats strike terror
into me ; and were I to reach the pole, I doubt whether
I should elude his grasp. But to live here a slave — slave
to his fears, — his jealousies ! — Night's coming on. Dark-
ness be my friend ! for I will forth instantly. The thought
of my innocence will cheer me, as I wander through the
gloom. Oh ! when guilty Ambition writhes upon its couch,

«C. V.l

THE IRON CHEST.

59

why should barefoot Integrity repine, though its sweet
deep be canopied with a ragged hovel. Exit^ r. door.

Scene V. — The inside of an Abbey in ruins. Part of it
converted into an habitation for robbers. Various en-
trances to their apartment through the broken arches of
the building., ^c.

Enter Judith, r., meeting a Voy from l.

Judith. Well, sirrah ! have you been upon the scout?
Are any of our gang returning ?

Boy. No, Judith, not a soul.

Judith. The rogues tarry thus to fret me.

Boy. Why, indeed, Judith, the credit of your cookery
is lost among thieves. They never come punctual to their
meals.

Judith. No tidings of Orson yet, from the market town ?
Boy. I have seen nothing of him.

Judith. Brat! thou dost never bring me good news.
Boy. Judith, you are ever so cross with me !

Judith. That wretch Orson slights my love of late.
Hence, you hemp- seed, hence I Get to the broken porch
■of the abbey and watch. ^Tis all you are good for.

Boy. You know I am but young yet, Judith! but, with
:good instructions, I may be a robber, in time.

Judith. Away, you imp ! you will never reach such
preferment, {ivhistle without., l.) So! I hear some of our
party, [whistle again., l. — the Boy whistles in answer)
Judith. Why must you keep your noise, sirrah ?

Boy. Nay, Judith, Tis one of the first steps we boys
learn in the profession. T shall ne'er come to good, if you
check me so. Huzza I here come two 1 [rain heard)

Enter two Robbers through the broken part of the
scene, l. u. e.

Judith. So ! you have found your road at last. A
murrain light upon you ! is it thus you keep your hours ?

1st Robber. What, hag, ever at this trade ! Ever
grumbling !

Judith. I have reason. I toil to no credit; I watcli
with no thanks. I trim up the table for your return, and

THE IKON CHEST.

m

[act II.

no one returns in due time to notice my industry. Your
meat is scorched to cinders. Rogues, would it were poison
for you !

2nd Robber. How the fury raves 1 Here, take my
carbine; ^twas levelhd, some half hour since, at a traveller's
Read.

Judith. Hah, hah, hah ! Rare! Didst shoot him ?

1st Robber. Shoot him? no. This devil in petticoats
thinks no more of slaying a man, than killing a cockchafer.
I never knew a woman turn to mischief, that she did not
outdo a man, clean.

Judith. Did any of you meet Orson on your way?

1st Robber. Aye, there the hand points. When that
fellow is abroad, you are more savage than customary; and
that is needless.

2nd Robber. None of our comrades come yet? They
will be finely soaked.

1st Robber. Aye, the rain pours like a spout upon the
ruins of the old abbey wall here.

Judith. I^m glad on’t. May it drench them, and breed
agues 1 Twill teach them to keep time.

1st Robber. Peace ! thou abominable railer. A man
had better dwell in purgatory, than have thee in his
habitation. — Peace, devil ! or ITl make thee repent.

Judith. You! Tis as much as thy life is worth to move
my spleen.

1st Robber. What, you will set Orson, your champion,
upon me ?

Judith. Coward! he should not disgrace himself with
chastising thee.

1st Robber. Death and thunder I

Judith. Aye, attack a woman, do ! it suits your hen-
hearted valour. Assault a woman !

1st Robber. Well — passion hurried me. But I have a
respect for the soft sex, and am cool again. Come, J udith,
be friends. — Nay, come, do; and I will give thee a farthin-
gale, I took from a lawyer's widow.

J UDITH. Where is it ?

1st Robber. You shall have it.

Judith. Well — I — Hark!

2nd Robber. Soft! I think I hear the foot of a comrade.

ac- V.]

THE IROM CHEtW,

«1

The Robbers enter through various parts of ruins^ in

groups, Orson, with a basket on his hack^ as if returned

from the market^ l. u. e.

1st. Robber. See! hither comes Orson at last. He
^alks in like plenty, with provision on his shoulder.

J UDiTH. 0, Orson ! — why didst tarry, Orson? I began
to fear. Thou art cold and damp. Let me ring the wet
from thy clothes. Oh ! my heart leaps to see thee.

1st. Robber, (l.) Mark how this she-bear hugs her
bruin !

Orson. Stand off! This hamper has been wearisome
enough. I want not thee on my neck.

Judith. Villain! Tis thus you ever use me. I can
revenge : — I can — do not, dear Orson ! do not treat me

thus.

Orson. Let a man be ever so sweet tempered, he
will meet somewhat to sour it. I have been vexed to
madness.

2nd. Robber, (r.) How now, Orson, what has vexed
thee now ?

Orson. A prize has slipt through my fingers.

3rd Robber, (l. c.) Aye! many, liow?

Orson. I met a straggling knave on foot, and the rogue
resisted. He had the face to tell me that he was thrust
on the world to seek his fortune ; and that the little he had
about him was his all. Plague on the provision at my
back ! I had no time to rifle him: — but I have spoiled him
for fortune seeking, I warrant him.

Robber. How?

Orson. Why I beat him to the ground. Whether he
will e^er get up again the next passenger may discover.

Judith. Ha ! ha ! 0, brave ! That's my valiant
Orson!

3rd Robber. Orson, you are ever disobeying our cap-
tain's order. You are too remorseless and bloody.

Orson. Take heed, then, how you move my anger, by
telling me on't. The affair is mine — I will answer to the
consequence. {whistle^ l.)

4th Robber. I hear our captain's signal. Here he
comes. Ha ! — he is leading one who seems wounded.

F

62

THE IRON CHEST.

[act II,

Enter Armstrong, supporting Wilford, l. u. e.

Armstrong. Gently, good fellow ! come, keep a good
heart !

Wilford. You are very kind. I had breathed my last,
but for your care. Whither have you led me ?

1st Robber. Where you will be well treated, young-
ster. You are now among as honourable a knot of men as
ever cried ‘‘ stand” to a trayeller.

Wilford. How : among robbers !

1st Robber. Why so the law^s cant calls us gentle-
men who live at large.

Wilford. So ! for what am I reserved ?

Armstrong. Fear nothing. You are safe in this asylum.
Judith, lead him in. See some of my linen ready, and
look to his wound.

Judith. I do not like the office. You are ever at these
tricks. ’Twill ruin us in the end. What have we to do
with charity ?

Armstrong. Turbulent wretch ! obey me.

Judith. Well, I shall. Come, fellow, since it must
be so.

Armstrong. Anon, I’ll visit you myself, lad.

Wilford. Heaven bless you ! whatever becomes of my
life — and faith, I am almost weary on’t — I am bound to
your charity. Gently, I pray you — my wound pains. —
Gently! Exit^ led out hy Judith, r.

Armstrong. I would I knew which of you had done
this.

1st Robber, (l.) Why what’s the matter, captain?

Armstrong. Cruelty is the matter. Had not accident
led me to the spot where he lay, yon poor boy had bled to
death. I learned his story, partly, from him, on the way :
and know how basely he has been handled by one of you.
Well time must discover him ; for he, who had brutality
enough to commit the action, can scarcely have courage
enougli to confess it.

Orson, (r.) Courage, captain, is a quality, I take it, little
Wanted by any here. What signify words — I did it.

Armstrong. I suspected thee, Orson. ’Tis scarce an
hour since he, whom thou hast wounded, quitted the

»C. V.] THE IRON CHEST. 63

service of Sir Edward Mortimer, in the forest, here ; and
enquiry will doubtless be made,

2nd Robber, (r. c.) Nay then we are all discovered.

Armstrong. Now, mark what thou hast done. Thou
hast endangered the safety of our party ; thou hast broken
my order (Tis not the first time, by many) in attacking a
passenger : — and what passenger ? One whose unhappy
case should have claimed your pity. He told you he had
displeased his master — ^left the house of comfort, and, w ith
his scanty pittance, was wandering round the world to
mend his fortune. Like a butcher, you struck the forlorn
boy to the earth, and left him to languish in the forest.
W ould any of our brave comrades have done this ?

All. None ! None !

Armstrong. Comrades, in this case, my voice is single.
But if it have any weight, this brute, this Orson, shall be
thrust from our community, which he has disgraced. Let
it not be said, brothers, while want drives us to plunder,
that wantonness prompts us to butchery.

Robbers. 0 brave captain ! away with him !

Orson. You had better ponder onT, ere you provoke
me.

Armstrong. Rascal! do you mutter threats. You
cannot terrify us. Our calling teems with danger — we
are not to be daunted by the treachery of an informer.
We defy you. Go. You dare not hurt us. You dare not
sacrifice so many brave, and gallant fellows, to your
revenge, and proclaim yourself scoundrel. Begone.

Orson. Well, if I must, I must {crossing l.) I was
always a friend to you all : but if you are bent on turning
me out

Robbers. Aye, aye — away, away I

Orson. Then the devil take you all ! Exit, l.

Armstrong. Come, comrades — think no more of this.
Let us drown the choler we have felt in wine and revelry.

^ Finale, {often omitted,)

Jolly Friars tippled here.

Ere these abbey walls had crumbled ;

Still the ruins boast good cheer.

Though long ago the cloysters tumbled.

64

THE IRON CHEST.

[act IIL

The monks are gone:— •

Well! well!

That's all one : —

Let's ring their knell.

Ding dong! ding dong! to the bald-pated monk!
He set the example,

We^l follow his sample,

And all go to bed most religiously drunk.

Peace to the good fat friar's soul!

Who, every day,

Did wet his clay.

In the deep capacious bowl.

Huzza! huzza! we'll drink, and we'll sing I
We'll laugh, and we'll quaff,

And make the welkin ring !

END OF ACT H.

ACT III.

Scene I. — A Boom in Sir Edward Mortimer* s Lodge. A
table and two chairs^ R. ; sofa near l.

Mortimer and Helen discovered.

Helen. Sooth, you look better now ; indeed you do.

Mortimer. ThouVt a sweet flatterer !

Helen. Ne'er trust me, the%

If I do flatter. This is wilfulness. —

Thou wilt be sick, because thou wilt be sick.

I'll cure you of this fancy, Mortimer.

Mortimer. And what would' st thou prescribe?

Helen. I would distil

Each flower that lavish happiness produced.

Through the world's paradise, ere disobedience
Scatter'd the seeds of care ; then mingle each,

In one huge cup of comfort for thee, love.

To chase away thy dulness. Thou shouldst wanton
Upon the wings of Time, and mock his flight,

As he sail'd with thee tow'rd eternity.

I'd have each hour, each minute of thy life,

A golden holiday; and should a cloud

THE IRON CHEST.

65

sc. I.]

Overcast thee, be it light as gossamer,

That Helen might disperse it with her breath,

And talk thee into sunshine!

Mortimer. Sweet, sweet Helen! (they rise)

Death, softened with thy voice, might dull liis sting,
And steep his darts in balsam. Oh ! my Helen,
These warnings which that grisly monarch sends,
Forerunners of his certain visitation,

Of late are frequent with me. It should seem
I was not meant to live long.

Helen. Mortimer 1

I could not talk so cruelly to you !

I would not pain you thus, for worlds !

Mortimer. Nay, come;

I meant not this. I did not mean to say
There^s danger now : but Tis the privilege
Of sickness to be grave, and moralize
On that which sickness brings. I prithee, now,

Be comforted. Believe me, I shall mend.

I feel I shall already.

Helen. Do you, Mortimer ?

Do you, indeed, feel so ?

Mortimer. Indeed I do.

Helen. I knew you would : — I said it. Did I not ?

I see it in your looks, now, you are better.
Mortimer. Scarce possible, so suddenly !

Helen. Oh, yes;

There is no little movement of your face
But I can mark on the instant — Tis my study.

I have so gazed upon it, that, I think,

I can interrupt every turn it has.

And read your inmost soul.

Mortimer. What ?

Helen. Mercy on me !

You change again.

Mortimer. ^Twas nothing. Do not fear ,

These little shocks, are usual. — 'Twill not last.
Helen. Would you could shake them off.

Mortimer. I would I could I

Helen. I prithee, now, endeavour. — This young man,
This boy — this Wilford — he has been ungrateful ;

66

THE IRON CHEST.

[act IIL

But do not let his baseness wear you thus.

Even let him go.

Mortimer. I’ll hunt him through the world !

Helen. Why, look you there now ! Pray be calm.
Mortimer. Well, well ;

I am too boisterous : ’tis my unhappiness
To seem most harsh where I would shew most kind.
The world has made me peevish. This same boy
Has somewhat moved me.

Helen. He’s beneath your care.

Seek him not now, to punish him. Poor wretch !

He carries that away, within his breast,

Which will embitter all his life to come,

And make him curse the knowledge on’t.

Mortimer. The knowledge !— *

Has he then breathed carries within his breast t

What does he know ?

Helen. His own ingratitude.

Mortimer. Oh, very true.

Helen. Then leave him to his conscience.

Believe me, love,

There is no earthly punishment so great.

To scourge ah evil act, as man’s own conscience,

To tell him he is guilty. _

Mortimer. ’Tis a hell !

I pray you talk no more on’t. — I am weak —

I did not sleep last night, (sits)

Helen. Would you sleep now?

Mortimer. No, Helen, no. I tire thy patient sweetness.
Helen. Tire me! nay, that you do not. Who comes here.

Enter Winterton, r. — Sir Edward sits on a sofa.

What, Winterton! how dost thou, old acquaintance?
How dost thou, Adam ?

Winterton. Bless your goodness, well.

Is my good master better ?

Helen. Somewhat, Adam.

Winterton. Now, by our lady, I rejoice to hear it.

I have a message

Helen. 0, no business now !

Winterton. Nay, so I said. Quoth I, ‘‘His honour’s sick;

sc. 1.] the iron chest. 67

Perilous sick !” but the rogue pressed, and pressed;

I could refuse no longeiv
Helen. AVho has thus importuned you?

WiNTERTON. To say the truth, a most ill- favor’d varlet.
But he will speak to none but to his worship.

I think ^tis forest business.

Mortimer. 0, not now :

Another time — to-morrow — when he will.

I am unfit. — They teaze me !

WiNTERTON. Even as you please, your worship. I should
think.

From what he dropt, he can give some account
Of the poor boy.

Mortimer. Of Wilford ! [crosses to Wintebton)

WiNTERTON. Troth, I think so.

The knave is shy ; but Adam has a head.

Mortimer. Quick; send him hither on the instant! Haste!
Fly, Adam, fly.

AVinterton. Well now, it glads my heart

To hear you speak so briskly.

Mortimer. Well, dispatch !

WiNTERTON. I go. Heavcu bless you both ! Heaven send
you well.

And merry days may come again. Exit^ r.

Helen. I fear this business may distract you, Mortimer :

I would you would defer it till to-morrow.
Mortimer. Not so, sweet. Do not fear. I prithee, now,
Let me have way in this. Retire awhile.

Anon Til come to thee.

Helen. Pray now, be careful.

I dread those agitations. Pray, keep calm.

Now do not tarry long. Adieu ! my Mortimer !
Mortimer. Farewell, awhile, sweet!

Helen. Since it must be so — Farewell ! Exit Helen, l.
Mortimer. Dear, simple innocence ! thy words of comfort
Pour oil upon my fires. Methought her eye.

When first she spake of conscience, shot a glance
Like her dead uncle on me. AVell, for AVilford!
That slave can play the Parthian with my fame,

And wound it while he flies. Bring him before me,
Place me the runagate witliin my gripe.

68

the' IRON CHEST.

[act III.

And I will plant my honour on its base,

Firmer than adamant, though hell and death
Should moat the work with blood ! Oh, how will sia
Engender sin ! Throw guilt upon the soul,

And, like a rock dash’d on the troubled lake,

’Twill form its circles, round succeeding round,

Each wider than the

Enter Orson, r.

How now ! What’s your business?
Orson. Part with your office in the forest : part
Concerns yourself in private.

Mortimer. How myself?

Orson. Touching a servant of your house; a lad.

Whose heels, I find, were nimbler than his duty.
Mortimer. Speak; what of him? Quick — Know you
where he is?

Canst bring me to him ?

Orson. To the very spot.

Mortimer. Do it.

Orson. Nay, softly.

Mortimer. I’ll reward you — amply—

Ensure your fortunes.

Orson. First ensure my neck.

’Twill do me little good else. I’ve no heirs ;

And, when I die, ’tis like the law will bury me.

At its own charge.

Mortimer. Be brief, and to your purpose.

Orson. Then, to the business which concerns your office,
Here, in the forest.

Mortimer. Nay, of that anon.

First of my servant.

Orson. Well, even as you please.

’Tis no rare thing — Let public duty wait,

Till private interests are settled. But
My story is a chain. Take all together,

’Twill not unlink.

Mortimer. Be quick, then. While we talk.

This slave escapes me,

Drson. Little fear of that.

He’s in no plight to journey far to-day.

THE IRON CHEST.

SC. I.]

6^

Mortimer. Where is he hid ?

Orson.

Mortimer.

Hard by ; with robbers.

Robbers ! —

Well, I^m glad on^t. ^Twill suit my purpose best.
{aloud) What, has he turn'd to plunder?

Orson. No ; not so.

Plunder has turn'd to him. He was knock'd down,
Last night, here in the forest, flat and sprawling ;
And the milk-hearted captain of our gang
Has shelter'd him.

Mortimer. It seems, then, thou'rt a thief?

Orson. I serv'd in the profession : But, last night.

The scurvy rogues cashier’d me. 'Twas a plot,

To ruin a poor fellow in his calling.

And take away my means of getting bread.

I come here, in revenge. I'll hang my comrades,

In clusters, on the forest oaks, like acorns.

Mortimer. Where lies their haunt?

Orson. Give me your honour, first

Mortimer. I pledge it, for your safety.

Orson. Send your officers

To the old Abbey ruins ; you will find
As bold a gang as e'er infested woods,

And fatten'd upon pillage.

What, so near me ! {crosses^ R.)

Mortimer.

In some few minutes, then, he' s m ine ! Ho ! Winterton !
Now for his lurking place ! Hope dawns again.
Remain you here; I may have work for you. {to Orson)
0 ! I will weave a web so intricate.

For this base insect! so entangle him! —

Why, Winterton ! Thou jewel, reputation I
Let me secure thee, bright and spotless, now ;

And this weak, care-worn body's dissolution,

Will cheaply pay the purchase ! Winterton !

Exit^ R.

Orson. There may be danger in my stay here. I will
e'en slink off, in the confusion I have raised. I value not
the reward. I hang my comrades, and that shall content
me.

He glances rounds sees a silver candlestick^ which he
concealsj and goes off^ r.

70

THE IRON CHEST.

[act III

Scene II. — A Hall in the Lodge.

Enter FiTZHARDiNa, l.

Fitz. The hue and cry is up ! I am half tempted
To wish the game too nimble for the dogs,

That hunt him at the heels. Wilford dishonest ?
I’ll mix with none,

In future, but the ugly : honest men.

Who can outgrin a Griffin ; or the head
Carved on the prow of the good ship the Gorgon..
I’m for carbuncled, weather-beaten faces,

That frightened little children, and might serve
For knockers to hall gates. —

Enter Samson, r.

Now — who are you t

Samson. Head serving-man to madam Helen, sir.

Fitz. Well, I may talk to tliee ; for thou dost answer
To the description of the sort of men
I have resolved to live with.

Samson. I am proud, sir,

To find I have your countenance.

Fitz. Canst tell me

The news of Wilford ?

Samson. He is turn’d a rogue, sir.

An errant knave, sir. ’Tis a rare thing, now.

To find an honest servant : — we are scarce.

Fitz. Where lies the abbey where they go to seek him ?
Dost know it ?

Samson. Marry, do I ; in the dark.

I have stood near it, many a time, in winter,

To watch the hares, by moonlight.

Fitz. A cold pastime !

Samson. Ay, sir ; ’twas killing work. I’ve left it off.
Fitz. Think you they wull be back soon ?

Samson. On the instant

It is hard by, sir. — Hark I hear their horses !

They are return’d, I warrant.

Fitz. Run you, fellow, — (Samson crosses^ l.)

If Wilford’ s taken, send him here to me.

71

sc. II.] THE IRON CHEST.

Bamson. Why he’s a rogue, sir. Would your worship
stoop

To parley with a rogue !

Fitz. Friend, I will stoop

To prop a sinking man, that's call'd a rogue,

And count him innocent, 'till he's found guilty.

I learn' d it from our English laws. Till detection
comes,

I side with the accused.

Samson. Would I had known

Your worship sooner. You're a friend, indeed !

All undiscover'd rogues are bound to pray for you :
So, heaven bless you !

Fitz. Well, well — bustle; stir: —

Do as I bid thea.

Samson. Aye sir. — I shall lean

Upon your worship in any time of need. —

Heaven reward you ! — Here's a friend to make I

Exit, L.

Fitz. I have a kind of movement, still, for Wilford,

I cannot conquer. What can be this charge

Sir Edward brings against himP—So! Here he comes!

Enter Wilford, l.

AYilford. I am inform'd it is your pleasurcj sir,

To speak with me.

Fitz. Aye, Wilford. I am sorry—

Faith, very sorry, — you and I meet thus.

How could you quit my brother thus abruptly ?
Wilford. I was unfit to serve him, sir.

Fitz. Unfit !

Wilford. I was unhappy, sir. I fled a house
Where certain misery awaited me.

While I was doom'd to dwell in't.

Fitz. Misery !

What was this certain misery ?

Wilford. Your pardon, —

I never will divulge.

Fitz. Harkye, young man. This smacks of mystery ;
And now looks foully^ Truth and Innocence,

72

THE IRON CHEST.

[act III.

Walk round the world in native nakedness ;

But Guilt is cloak’d.

WiLFORD. Whate’er the prejudice

My conduct conjures up, I must submit.

Fitz. ’Twere better now you conjured up your friends:

For I must tell you No, there is no need.

You learn’ d it, doubtless, on the way, and know
The danger you, now, stand in.

WiLFORD. Danger, sir !

What ? How ? I have learnM nothing, sir : my guides
Dragged me in silence hither.

Fitz. Then Tis fit

I put you on your guard. It grieves me, Wilford,

To say there is a heavy charge against you,

Which, as I gather, may affect your life.

WiLFORD. Mine! — oh, good heaven!

Fitz. Pray be calm : — for, soon,

Here, in the face of all his family,

My brother will accuse you.

WiLFORD. He ! — what, he !

He accuse me ! oh, monstrous ! Oh, look down

You who can read men’s hearts I — A charge against
me !

Ha, ha! I’m innocent ! I’m innocent! {much agitated)
Fitz. Collect your firmness. You will need it all.
WiLFORD. I shall, indeed ! I pray you tell me, sir,

What is the charge ?

Fitz. I do not know its purport

I would not hear on’t : for on my voice rests
The issue of this business ; — and a judge
Should come unbiass’ d to his office. Wilford,

Were twenty brothers waiting my award,

You should have even, and impartial justice.
Farewell ! and may you prosper ! Exitj r.

Wilford. Let me recall my actions. — My breast is
unclogged with crime. Then, why should I fear ? Let
him inflict his menaces upon, me in secret ; he shall nor,
cannot, touch my good name.

Enter Barbara, l.

Barbara. Oh, Wilford ! ( falls on his neck)

THE IRON CHEST.

75

tSC. II.]

WiLFORD. Barbara ! at such a time, too !

Barbara. To be bror.glit back, thus, Wilford ! and to
go away without seeing me ! without thinking of me !

Wilford. It was not so — I was hastening to your cot-
tage, Barbara, when a ruffian, in the forest, encountered
and wounded me.

Barbara. Wounded you !

Wilford. Aye, Barbara. When I was dragged hither,
the whole trooj) escaped, or they had vouched for the
truth on^t.

Barbara. Bethink you, Wilford — the time is short : I
know your heart is good.

Barbara, If, in a hasty moment, you have done ought
to wrong Sir Edward, throw yourself on his mercy , — sue
for pardon.

Wilford. For pardon ! — I shall go mad ! Pardon ! I
am innocent. — Heaven knows I am innocent.

Barbara. Heaven be thanked! — The family is all sum-
moned. 0, Wilford ! my spirits sink within me.

Wilford. [aside) I am, now, but a sorry comforter.
Be of good cheer. I go armed in honesty, Barbara. This
charge is to be open in the eye of the world, and of the
law; then, wherefore, should I fear. I am native of a
happy soil, where Justice guards equally the life of its
poorest and richest inhabitant.

Exit Wilford and Barbara, r.

Scene III. — An Apartment in the Lodge, Table and two
arm chairs ; — trunk on tahle^ l.

Fiztharding seated^ c., Wilford, r. ; Gregory and
Domestics discovered^ r. and l.

PiTZ. Is not Sir Edward coming? Oh ! he’s here!

Enter Sir Edward Mortimer, r.

Now, brother — You lOok pale,

And faint with sickness. Here’s a chair.

Mortimer, (sitting,, l. c.) No matter. — To our business,
brother. Wilford !

You may well guess the struggle I endure
To place you here the mark of accusation.

G

74

THE IKON CHEST.

[act hi.

I gave you ample warning : Cautioned you,

When many might have scourged : and, even now,
AYhile I stand liere to crush you, — aye, to crush you,
My heart bleeds drops of pity for your youth,

W^hose rashness plucks the red destruction down,
And pulls the bolt upon you.

WiLFORD. You know best

The movements of your heart, sir. Man is blind,
And cannot read them : but there is a Judge,

To whose all-seeing eye our inmost thoughts
Lie open. Think to him you now appeal. —
Omniscience keeps heaven’s register ;

And, soon or late, when Time unfolds the book,

Our trembling souls must answer to the record,

And meet their due reward or punishment.

Fitz. Now, to the point, I pray you.

Mortimer. Thus it is, then,

1 do suspect — By heaven, the story lingers.

Like poison on my tongue, — but he will force it

Fitz. What is it you suspect ?

Mortimer. That he has robVd me.

WiLFORD. RobbM! I! 0, horrible !

Fitz. [to Wilford) Not yet — not yet.

Pray tell me, brother, how ground you this suspicion ?

Mortimer. Briefly, thus : —

You may have noticed, in my library,

A chest ; (Wilford starts) — You see he changes at
the word.

Wilford. [aside) And well I may !

Mortimer. Where I have told you, brother,

The writings which concern our family,

With jewels, cash, and other articles.

Of no mean value, were deposited.

Fitz. You oftentimes have said so.

MortIxMer. Yesterday,

Chance calhd me, suddenly, away ; I left
The key in’t — but as suddenly return’d ;

And found this Wilford, this young man, whose state.
Whose orphan state, met pity in my house,

’Till pity grew to friendship, — him I found,

FixM o’er the chest, upon his knees, intent.

THE IRON CHEST.

75

se. III.]

As, now, I think, on plunder. Confusion
Shook his young joints, as he let fall the lid,

And gave me back the key.

Fitz. Did you not search

Your pepers on the instant?

Mortimer. No : — for, first,

(Habit so long had fix^d my confidence)

I deem'd it boyish curiosity ; —

But told him this would meet my further question :
And, at that moment, came a servant in.

To say you were arrived. He must have mark'd
Our mix'd emotion.

Fitz. Is that servant here ?

Gregory, [coiiies down l.) 'Twas I, sir.

Mortimer. Was it you? Well, saw you ought
To challenge your attention ?

Gregory. Sir, I did. —

Wilford was pale and trembling ; and our master
Gave .him a look as if 'twould pierce him through ;
And cried, ^‘Eemember." — Then he trembled more.
And we both quitted him.

Mortimer. When first we met.

You found me somewhat ruffled.

Fitz. 'Tis most true.

Mortimer. But somewhat more when, afterwards, I saw,
Wilford conversing with you ; — like a snake,

Sun'd by your looks, and basking in your favour.

I bade him quit the room, with indignation.

And wait my coming in the library.

Fitz. I witness'd that, with wonder.

Mortimer. 0, good brother !

You little thought, while you so gently school'd me,
In the full flow of your benevolence.

For my harsh bearing tow'rd him, on what ground
That harshness rested. I had made my search,

In the brief interval of absence from you,

And found my property had vanish'd.

Fitz. (c.) Well—

You met him in the library?

Mortimer, (l. c.) 0, never

Can he forget that solemn interview. ^

76 THE IRON CHEST. [ACT III.

AVilford. (r.) Aye, speak to that: — it was a solemn
interview.

Mortimer. Observe, he does acknowledge that we met ;
Guilt was my theme : — he cannot, now deny it.

WiLFORD. It was a theme of No ! [checking himself)

Mortimer, He pleaded innocence :

AYliile every word he spake belied his features,

And mocked his protestation.

Fitz. What said you to him?

Mortimer. Regulate your life.

In future, better. I, now, spare your youth ;

But dare not to proceed. All I exact,

(’Tis a soft penance) — that you tarry here ;

My eye your guard, my house your gentle prison,,
My bounty be your chains. Attempt not flight ;
Flight ripens all my doubt to certainty.

And justice to the world unlocks my tongue." —
He fled, and I arraign him.

Fitz. Trust me, brother.

This charge is staggering. Yet accidents
Sometimes combine to cast a shade of doubt
Upon the innocent. May it be so here !

Here is his trunk : Twas brought here at my order.
’Tis fit it be inspected.

WiLFORu. Here’s the key —

(Gregory goes for key and gives it to Fitzharding)
E’en take it, freely. — You’ll find little there
I value ; save a locket, which my mother
Gave me upon her death-bed ; and she added
Her blessing to’t. Perhaps, her spirit now
Is grieving for my injuries.

Fitz. [goes to trunk) How now ? What’s there?

The very watch Sir Edward’s father wore !

And, here, our mother’s jewels !

WiLFORD. I am innocent. Just heaven hear me !

Fitz. Make it appear so. — But look there ; look there !

[points to the trunk)

WiLFORD. Do you not know

jMortimer. What?

WiLFORD. ’Tis no matter, sir.

But I could swear

Mortimer, [rises) Nay, Wilford, pause awhile.

THE IRON CHEST.

77

SC. III.]

Reflect that oaths are sacred. Weigh the force
Of these asservatioiis. Mark it well.

I swear hy all the ties that hind a man^

Divine or human ! Think on that, and shudder.
WiLFORD. [aside) The very words I utter'd! I am
tongue-tied.

Fitz. Wilford, if there be aught that you can urge,

To clear yourself, advance it.

Wilford. 0, I could !

I could say much, but must not. — No, I will not.

Do as you please. I have no friend — no witness,
Save my accuser. Did he not — pray ask him ?

Did he not menace, in his pride of power,

To blast my name, and crush my innocence ?

Fitz. What do you answer, sir?

Mortimer. I answer — No. —

More were superfluous, when a criminal

Opposes empty volubility

To circumstantial charge A stedfast brow

Repels not fact, nor can invalidate

These dumb, but damning, witnesses, before him.

[pointing to the trunk)
Wilford. By the just Power that rules us, I am ignorant
How they came there ! — but 'tis my firm belief.

You placed them there, to sink me.

Fitz. 0, too much I

You steel men'shearts against you! Death and shame!
It rouses honest choler. Call the officers. —

He shall meet punishment. (Servants going^ r.)
Mortimer, [sits^ c.) Hold ! pray you, hold.

Justice has, thus far, struggled with my pity.

To do an act of duty to the ^vorld.

I would unmask a hypocrite ; lay bare

The front of guilt, that men may see and shun it :

'Tis done — And I will, now, proceed no further.

I would not hurt the serpent, but to make
The serpent hurtless. Pie has lost his sting :

Let him depart, and freely.

Fitz. Look ye, brother, this act

Is so begrimed with black, ungrateful malice.

That I insist on justice. Fly, knaves ! run.

78 THE IRON CHEST. [aCT III.

And let him be secured. [Exeunt Servants, l.) You
tarry here, [to Wilford)

Mortimer. I will not have it thus.

Fitz. You must — You shall —

Tis weak else. Oons ! I trust I have as much
Of good, straight-forward pity, as may serve : —

But, to turn dove — to sit still, and be peck’d at, —

Tt is too tame. His insolence tops all !

Does not this rouse you, too ? — Look on these jewels.
Look at this picture. — ’Twas our mother’s : stay.

Let me inspect this nearer. What are here ?

Parchments [inspecting the trunk)

Mortimer. Oh, look no further — they are deeds.

Which, in his haste, no doubt he crowded there.

Not knowing what — to look o’er at his leisure
Family deeds — they all were in my chest.

Wilford. Oh, ’tis deep laid ! — these, too, to give a colour I

[aside)

Fitz. What have we here? Here is a paper
Of curious enfolding — slip!, as ’twere
By chance, within another. This may be
Of note upon his trial, [a dagger falls) What’s this
drops ?

A knife, it seems !

Mortimer. What ! [starting)

Fitz. Marks of blood upon it.

Mortimer. Touch it not. Throw it back! — bury it —
sink it! [runs down^ r.)

Oh, carelessness and haste ! Give me that paper.
Darkness and hell ! — Give me the paper.

(Mortimer attempts to snatch it — Wilford runs
between the two brothers^ falls on his kneeSj and
prevents him, holding Fitziiarding)

Wilford. [rapidly) No.

I see — I see — preserve it. You are judge !

My innocence, my life, rests on it !

Mortimer. Devils !

Foil me at my own game ! — Fate ! — ha, ha, ha!

Sport, Lucifer! — He struck me

(Mortimer faints and is falling — AVilford runs
and catches him)

THE IRON CHEST.

79

SC. III.]

WiLFORD. {in centre) I’ll support him. —

Bead I read ! read !

PiTZ. What is this My mind misgives me !

It is my brother’s hand ! {reads) This paper to be
destroyed before my death !” What can this mean ?

“ Narrative of my murder of ” Oh, great heav’nl

“ If by some chance my guilt should be disclosed,

‘‘ May this contribute to redeem the wreck
“Of my lost honour!” — I am horror-struck!
WiLFORD. Plain, plain ! — stay he revives.

Mortimer, {reviving) What has been — soft I

I have been wand’ring with the damn’d, sure. —
Brother I —

And — aye — ’tis Wilford! Oh! thought flashes on me
Like lightning. I am brain- scorch’d. Give me leave.

I will speak — Soon I will a little yet —

Come hither, boy— wrong’d boy ! Oh, Wilford, Wil-
ford ! {hursts into tears^ and falls on Wilford’s neck)
WiLF. Be firm, sir ; pray be firm ! my heart bleeds for you;
Warms for you! Oh! all your former charity
To your poor boy, is in my mind. — Still, still,

I see my benefactor !

Mortimer. Well, I will —

I will be firm. One struggle, and ’tis over.

I have most foully wrong’d you ! Ere I die —

And I feel death- struck — let me haste to make
Atonement. — Brother, note. The jewels, —

Yes, and that paper — heaven and accident
Ordain’d it so ! — were placed — curse on my flesh,

To tremble thus ! — were placed there by my hand.
PiTZ. 0, mercy on me !

Mortimer More. I fear’d this boy ;

He knew my secret ; and I blacken’d him.

That should he e’er divulge the fatal story.

His word might meet no credit. Infamy
Will brand my mem’ry for’t : Posterity
Whose breath I made my god, will keep my shame
Green in her damning record. Oh ! I had —

I had a heart o’erflowing with good thoughts
For all mankind ! One fatal, fatal turn,

Has poison’d all ! Where is my honour, now ?

To die !; — To have my ashes trampled on,

80

THE IRON CHEST.

By the proud foot of scorn ! Polluted ! Hell—

Who dares to mock my guilt? Is’t you-or you?—
^ck me that grinning fiend ! Damnation i ^

Who spits upon my grave? I’ll stab again-

^ ^ { f 11 \

J^nter Helen, l.

Oh,

-Gently,

Oh, heaven ! my Mortimer. 0, raise him.
bpeak to me, love. He cannot !

Mortimer. Helen— ’Twas I that kill

io speak, hut appears unable:
he kisses her hand and dies, c. ; she faints upon the bod ’

^ ‘ .'^h.Pire&

Curtatw^ ''wofacriD

the TroH

Costut1t^0 — (time op CHARLES THE FIRST.)

slashed

VelloTannol7 w't clashed with

y and gold lace, buff boots, cane, sword, iron-grey rinelet

featherlniff* heaver ifat^and^ed

^O’ahlet or short tunic, and trunks trimmed
with black, grey tights and shoes, round cap. tnmmed ,

shoes^raft^®”"'^ trimmed with red, red tights and buff j

■. ®o*'^ and worn short tunic and trunks,

■ inira^ 2>res« .• Smart red doublet and

niks, yellow stockings and shoes, ruff.

’ERVANTS.— Liveries, with a badge on the left arm.

' , “-leathern jerkin and trunks, grey stockings and high

i-es, bald crowned wig, slouch hat. 6» ^

\RMSTRONO.— Doublet and trunks, breastplate, black tights
)M0N“'^‘'Brown*'d^ RW*' feathers, sword, dagger, and pistol. ’

^ r iPh Lnf 1 and short trunks, fleshings and boots,

I ^ T?® *1**8“*®® ®l®ak, dagger, pistols, and gun.

hoBBBKs.— Dresses of vanous colours similar to the above.

Helen.— White satin dress, ringlets.
lac0'^7oi*,r®'“®L '^®ly®f body, pink petticoat trimmed with cotton
bIIbab! pT^®*! ®"g»>-foaf hat, and red cloak.

rbara.— Plain brown menno body and skirt, straw gipsey hat.

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. 3, Scenes, Interludes, and Farces. — Parts 1 to 5. One
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MALE COSTUMES: Dramatic, Historic, and ISTafcional.
In 84 Parts, of Six Plates each. (Price 3s. coloured^ or
9d. plain ; or Complete and Handsomely Bound, £5 5s. ;
Ijiaiit for 2os.) ,

FEMALE COSTUMES: Dramatic, H istorical, and
National. In 31* Parts, of Six Plates each. (Price Ss.
coloured^ or 9d. plain ; or Complete and Handsomely
Bound, £5 5s., coloured^ or 25s. plain.')

PLANCHE’S HISTORY OF BRITISH COSTUME,

many v-'oed illustrations, reduced to 2s. 6(?. boards.

BOOK OF COSTUME, with hundreds of illustrations
reduced from one guinea to 10s.

LA0Y;S FAIRY BURLESQUES FOR HOME PER-
FORMANCE, by Miss Keating, M. each. Becuty and
Beast, Blue Beard, White Cat, Cinderella, Yellow Dwarf,
Aladdin, Puss in Boots, Little Red Riding Hood, Sleepinp*
Beauty, Ali Baba, (tc.

LACY’S DRAMATIC RECITER, contains the most
popular Serious Recitations extant, 6cZ.

Lacy’s Acting Plays 8d.

1149 Richard 11.

1150 Black Eyed Sue, Burl.

1151 Cure for Fidgets

1152 Mr. Scrgfogins

1153 Helen

1151 100,000 Pounds
1155 Nobody’s Child
VOLUME 78.

1150 WeallHaveLittleFaults

1157 Tell with a Vengeance

1158 Mary Turner

1159 Lord Darnley

1160 Dandelion’s Dodges

1161 Belle of the Barley Mew

1162 Jack o’ the Hedge

1163 He’s a Lunatic

1164 Simon Lee

1165 Lucia Lammermeor, Op.

1166 Crown Diamonds, Op.

1167 Mutiny at the Nore

1168 Affair of Honour

1169 Two Puddifoots

1170 Kind to a Fault

VOLUME 79.

1171 Iflhad^lOOOa-year

1172 Caesar the Watch Dog

1173 Inchcape Bell

1174 Siamese Twins

1175 Humbug

1176 White Fawn

1177 Up for the Cattle Show

1178 Caliph of Bagdad

1179 Mischief Making

1180 Home of One’s Own

1181 Glass of Water

1182 Timour the Tartar

1183 Irishman in London

1184 George Barnwell

1185 Who’s to Win Him?

VOLUME 80.

1186 Maud’s Peril

1187 Very Pleasant Evening

1188 Peep-Show Man

1189 One too Many for Him

1190 Happiest Day my Life

1191 Pleasant Dreams

1192 X y Z

1193 Volunteer Review

1194 Who’s my Husband ?

1195 Lost in London

1196 Honour before Wealth

1197 Silent Protector

1198 Field of Cloth of GcU

1199 Special Performances

1200 Go to Putney

VOLUME 81.

1201 Under the Gaslight
^202 Ireland as it Was

1203 Teddy the Tiler

1204 Woman of World [Com

1205 Little Annie’s Birthday

1206 Black Sheep Drama

1207 Time and Tide

1208 Time and the Hour

1209 Tom Thrasher

1210 Done Brown

1211 Ragpicker of Paris

1212 Dinorah under Dilfs

1213 Scamps of London

1214 Master Jones’ Birthday

1215 Der Freischutz, Byron

VOLUME 81.

1216 Wife’s Secret, is.

1217 Beautiful for Ever

1218 Atchi

1219 Stranger, Burl.

1220 Settling Day, Is.

1221 Presumptive Evidence

1222 Chrononotonthokgos

1223 Old and Young

1224 Grace Huntley

1225 Wizard of the Moor

1226 Dead Heart

1227 Brown an^ Brahmins

1228 Irish Emigrant

1229 Philippe, or the Secret
Maarriage

1230 Comfortable Lodgings

VOLUME 83.

1231 Happy Pair, A

1232 Rochester, 2 Acta

1233 William Tell, 3 Acts

1234 Jack Cade

1235 Marie Antoinette

1236 Paper Wings

1237 Gertrude’s Money Box

1238 Faust, Is.

1239 Cup of Tea, A

1240 Matteo Falcone

1241 Day’s Fishing, A

1242 Blossm ChurningGreen

1243 Mariner’s Compass

1244 Glitter

1245 Fettered

VOLUME 84.

1246 Not Guilty

1247 Winning Hazard

1248 Lion at Bay

1249 Witch of Windermere

1250 Paris

1251 Fire Raiser

1252 Winning a Wife

1253 Lame Excuse

1254 Ladies of St. Cyr

1255 Bird of Paradise

1256 Fair Rosamond’s Bower

1257 Edendale

1258 Test of Truth

1259 Chops of the Channel

1260 Mrs. Smith

VOLUME 85.

1261 Man of Tw(> Live* Is.

Post Free. , "

1262 Pedrillo I

1263 Old Score, An

1264 Milky Wfeite

1265 Checkmate

1266 Felon’s Bond !

1267 Broken Sword

1268 Hop-pickers & G |

1269 Loving Cup

1270 Home Wreck

1271 Spoiled Child

1272 Daddy Gray

1273 Serpent on the 1

1274 Sea-gulls

1275 Old Gooseberry

VOLUME 86. I

i 1276 Isoline of Bavari *

i 1277 Who s Who?

1278 Quaker ,

1279 Wait for an Ans\ .

1280 Foscari j

1281 Somnambulist

1282 First Floor

1283 Gnome King

1284 Joan of Arc ^

1285 Ambrose Gwinett

1286 John Overy

1287 Throu|L Fire &

1288 ShadcT of a Grin

1289 TomkiM the Trov

1290 Life Chase

VOLUME 87.

1291 The Princess

1202 LucretiP DorgiaLB^

1293 Blue Devils

1294 Beggar’s Petitioi

1295 Lord Bateman

1296 Maid & Magpie [Dr

1297 Robber of the Rbi

1298 Won at Last

1299 Popping the Que? •

1300 Lizzie Lyle

1301 Pedlar Boy

1302 LindaofChamor

1303 Pyke O’Callaghu

1304 Clouds and Suns.

1305 Terrible Tinker